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'The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 


Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

EDITED   BY 

BERTHA  CLARK  POPE 


WITH  A  MEMOIR  BY 

GEORGE  STERLING 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

THE  BOOK  CLUB  OF  CALIFORNIA 
1922 


/#  reproducing  these  letters  we  have  followed  as  nearly  as  possible  the  original 
manuscripts.  This  inevitably  has  caused  a  certain  lack  of  uniformity  through 
out  the  volume, as  in  the  case  of  the  names  of  magazines  and  newspapers, which 
are  sometimes  italicized  and  sometimes  in  quotation  marks.  — THE  EDITOR. 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  THE  CALIFORNIA  BOOK  CLUB 


The  Introduction 

by  BERTHA  CLARK  POPE 


492171 


The  Introduction 

by  BERTHA  CLARK  POPE 


"  r  i  "A  H  E  questi°n  that  starts  to  the  lips  of  ninety-nine  read- 
I  ers  out  of  a  hundred, ' '  say  s  Arnold  Bennett,  in  a  re- 
-*-  view  in  the  London  NEW  AGE  in  igoq,"even  the 
best  informed,  will  assuredly  be : ( Who  is Ambrose Bierce? ' 
I  scarcely  know,  but  I  will  say  that  among  what  I  may  term 
'underground  reputations'  that  of  Ambrose  Bierce  is  per 
haps  the  most  striking  example.  You  may  wander  for  years 
through  literary  circles  and  never  meet  anybody  who  has 
heard  of  Ambrose  Bierce, and  then  you  may  hear  some  eru 
dite  student  whisper  in  an  awed  voice:  'Ambrose  Bierce  is 
the  greatest  living  prose  writer'  I  have  heard  such  an  opin 
ion  expressed'' 

Bierce  himself  shows  his  recognition  of  the  "underground" 
quality  of  his  reputation  in  a  letter  to  George  Sterling:"  How 
many  times,  and  during  a  period  of  how  many  years  must 
one' s  unexplainable  obscurity  be  pointed  out  to  constitute 
fame?  Not  knowing,  lam  almost  disposed  to  consider  my 
self  the  most  famous  of  authors.  I  have  pretty  nearly  ceased 
to  be  'discovered]  but  my  notoriety  as  an  obscurian  may  be 
said  to  be  worldwide  and  everlasting'' 

Anything  which  would  throw  light  on  such  ajigure,  at  once 


VI 


The  Introduction 


obscure  and  famous,  is  valuable.  These  letters  of  Ambrose 
Bierce,  here  printed  for  thejirst  time,  are  therefore  of  unu 
sual  interest.  They  are  the  informal  literary  'work — the  term 
is  used  advisedly — of  a  man  esteemed  great  by  a  small  but 
acutely  critical  group, re  ad  enthusiastic  ally  by  a  somewhat 
larger  number  to  whom  critical  examination  of  what  they 
re  ad  seldom  occurs,  and  ignored  by  the  vast  majority  of  read 
ers;  a  man  at  once  more  hated  and  more  adored  than  any  on 
the  Pacific  Coast;  a  man  not  ten  years  off  the  scene  yet  already 
become  a  tradition  and  a  legend;  whose  life,  no  less  than  his 
death,held  elements  of  my  stery, baffling  contradictions, prob 
lems  for  puzzled  conjecture,  motives  and  meanings  not 
vouchsafed  to  outsiders. 

c/ 

Were  Ambrose  Bierce  as  well  known  as  he  deserves  to  be, 
the  introduction  to  these  letters  could  be  slight;  we  should  not 
have  to  stop  to  inquire  who  he  was  and  what  he  did.  As  it  is, 
we  must. 

Ambrose  Bierce,  the  son  of  Marcus  Aurelius  and  Laura 
( Sherwood}  Bierce,  born  in  Meiggs  County,  Ohio,  June  24, 
1842,  was  at  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  a  youth  with- 
outformaleducation,butwith  a  mind  already  trained  "My 
father  was  a  poor  farmer"  he  once  said  to  a  friend,  "and 
could  give  me  no  general  education,  but  he  had  a  good  libra 
ry, and  to  his  books  I  owe  all  that  I  have"  He  promptly  vol 
unteered  in  186 1  and  served  throughout  the  war.  Twice,  at 
the  risk  of  his  life,  he  rescuedwounded  companions  from  the 
battlefield,  and  at  Kenesaw  Mountain  was  himself  severely 
wounded  in  the  head.  He  was  brevetted  Major  for  distin- 


The  Introduction 


Vll 


guished  services,  but  in  after  life  never  permitted  the  title  to 
be  use  din  addressing  him.  "There  is  a  story  that  when  the  war 
was  over  he  tossed  up  a  coin  to  determine  what  should  be  his 
career.  Whatever  the  determining  auguries,  he  came  at  once 
to  San  Francisco  to  join  his  favorite  brother  Albert — there 
were  ten  brothers  and  sisters  to  choose  from — and  for  a  short 
time  worked  with  him  in  the  Mint;  he  soon  began  writing 
paragraphs  for  the  weeklies, particularly  the  ARGONAUT 
and  the  NEWS  LETTER. 

"  1 was  a  slovenly  writer  in  those  days"  he  observes  in  a 
letter  forty  years  later  "though  enough  better  than  my  neigh 
bors  to  have  attracted  my  own  attention.  My  knowledge  of 
English  was  imperfect  'a  whole  lot  .'Indeed,  my  intellectual 
status  (whatever  it  may  be,  and  God  knows  it's  enough  to 
make  me  blush}  was  of  slow  growth — as  was  my  moral.  I 
mean,  I  had  not  literary  sincerity ."  Apparently,  attention 
other  than  his  own  was  attracted, for  he  was  presently  edit 
ing  //^NEWS  LETTER. 

In  1872  he  went  to  London  and  for  four  years  was  on  the 
staff  of  FUN  .  In  London  Bierce found  congenial  and  stimu 
lating  associates.  'The  great  man  of  his  circle  was  George 
Augustus  Sala"one  of  the  most  skilful, finished  journalists 
ever  known,"  a  keen  satiric  wit,  and  the  author  of  a  ball  ad  of 
which  it  is  said  that  Swift  might  have  been  proud.  Another 
not  able  figure  was  TomHoodtheyounger,mordantly  humor 
ous.  The  satiric  style  in  journalism  was  popular  then;  and 
"personal"  journals  were  so  personal  that  one  "Jimmy" 
Davis,  editor  of  the  CUCKOO  and  the  BAT  successively, 


Vlll 


The  Introduction 


found  it  healthful  to  remain  some  years  in  exile  in  France. 
Bierce  contributed  to  several  of  these  and  to  FIGARO,/^ 
editor  of  which  was  James  Mortimer.  To  this  gentleman 
Bierce  owed  what  he  designated  as  the  distinction  of  being 
"probably  the  only  American  journalist  who  was  ever  em 
ployed  by  an  Empress  in  so  congenial  a  pursuit  as  the  pur 
suit  of  another  journalist"  This  other  journalist  was  M. 
Henri  Roc hefort,  communard,formerly  editor  0/~LA  LAN- 
TERNE  in  Paris,  in  which  he  had  made  incessant  war  upon 
the  Empire  and  all  its  personnel,  particularly  the  Empress. 
When,  an  exile,  Rochefort  announced  his  intention  of  re 
newing  LA  LANTERNE  in  London,  the  exiled  Empress 
circumvented  him  by  secretly  copyrighting  the  title,  THE 
LANTERN,  and  proceeding  to  publish  a  periodical  under 
that  name  with  the  purpose  of  undermining  his  influence. 
Two  numbers  were  enough;  M.  Rochefort  fled  to  Belgium. 
Bierce  said  that  in  "the  field  of  chromatic  journalism"  it 
was  the  finest  thing  that  ever  came  from  a  press, but  of  the 
literary  excellence  of  the  twelve  pages  he  felt  less  qualified 
for  judgment  as  he  had  written  every  line. 

This  was  in  1874.  Two  years  earlier, under  his  journal 
istic  pseudonym  of"DodGrile"he  had  published  his  first 
books — two  small  volumes,  largely  made  up  of  his  articles 
in  the  San  Francisco  NEWS  LETTER,c^//^The  Fiend's 
Delight,  and  Nuggets  And  Dust  Panned  Out  In  Cali 
fornia.  Now,  he  used  the  same  pseudonym  on  the  title-page  of 
a  third  volume,  Cobwebs  from  an  Empty  Skull.  The 
Cobwebs  were  selections  from  his  work  mFuN — satirical 


The  Introduction 


IX 


tales  and  fable  soften  inspired  by  weird  old  woodcuts  given 
him  by  the  editors  with  the  request  that  he  write  something 
to  jit.  His  journalistic  associates  praisedthese  volumes  liber 
ally,  and  a  more  distinguished  admirer  was  Gladstone,  who, 
discovering  the  Cobwebs  in  a  second-hand  bookshop,  voiced 
his  delight  in  their  c  lev  ernes  s,  and  by  his  praise  gave  a  cer 
tain  currency  toBierce 's  name  among  the  London  elect.  But 
despite  so  distinguished  a  sponsor,  the  books  remained  gen 
erally  unknown. 

Congenial  tasks  and  association  with  the  brilliant  jour al- 
ists  of  the  day  did  not  prevent  fierce  from  being  undeniably 
hard  up  at  times.  In  l8j6  he  returned  to  San  Francisco, 
where  he  remained  for  twenty -one  years,  save  for  a  brief 
but  eventful  career  as  general  manager  of  a  mining  com 
pany  nearDeadwood,  South  Dakota.  All  this  time  he  got  his 
living  by  writing  special  articles— -for  the  WASP,#  weekly 
whose  general  temper  may  be  accurately  surmised  from  its 
name, and,  beginning  in  1886, for  the  EXAM  i  N  E  R,  in  which 
he  conducted  every  Sunday  on  the  editorial  page  a  depart 
ment  to  which  he  gave  the  title  he  had  used  for  a  similar  col 
umn  in  THE  LANTERN — Prattle.  A  partial  explanation 
of  a  mode  of  feeling  and  a  choice  of  themes  which  Bierce  de 
veloped  more  and  more ,  ultimately  to  the  pratical  exclusion 
of  all  others,  is  to  be  found  in  the  particular  phase  through 
which  California  journalism  was  just  then  passing. 

In  the  evolution  of  the  comic  spirit  the  lo  west  stage,  that  of 
delight  in  inflicting  pain  on  others,  is  clearly  manifest  in  sav 
ages, small  boys, and  early  Americanjournalism.lt  was  ex- 


The  Introduction 


hibitedin  all  parts  of  America— Mark  Twain  gives  a  vivid 
example  in  his  Journalistic  Wild  Oats  of  what  it  was  in 
Tennessee— but  with  particular  intensity  in  San  Francisco, 
a  community,  San  Francisco  exalted  personal  courage, 
directness  of  encounter,  straight  and  effective  shooting. The 
social  group  was  so  small  and  so  homogeneous  that  any  news 
of  importance  would  be  well  known  before  it  could  bereported, 
set  up  in  type, printed,  and  circulated.  It  was  isolated  by  so 
great  distances  from  the  rest  of  the  world  that  for  years  no 
pretense  was  made  of  furnishing  adequate  news  from  the 
out  side.  So  the  newspapers  came  to  rely  on  other  sorts  of  in 
terest. They  were  pamphlets  for  the  dissemination  of  the  opin 
ions  of  the  groups  controlling  them,  and  weapons  for  doing 
battle,  if  need  be,  for  those  opinions.  And  there  was  abun- 
\f  dant  occasion :  municipal  affairs  were  corrupt,  courts  weak 
or  venal,  or  both.  Editors  and  readers  enjoyed  a  good  fight; 
they  also  wanted  humorous  entertainment;  they  happily  com 
bined  the  two. In  the  creative  dawn  of  1 8  4.  J  when  the  founda 
tions  of  the  journalistic  earth  were  I  aid  and  those  two  morn 
ing  stars, the  CALIFORNIAN  of  Monterey  and  the  CALI 
FORNIA  STAR  of  San  Francisco, sang  together, we Jind  the 
editors  attacking  the  community  generally,  and  each  other 
particularly,  with  the  utmost  ferocity ,  laying  about  them 
right  and  left  with  verbal  broad-axes,  crow-bars,  and  such 
other  weapons  as  might  be  immediately  at  hand.  The  CAL 
IFORNIA  STAR'S  introduction  to  the  public  of  what  would, 
in  our  less  direct  day,  be  known  as  its  "esteemed  contempo 
rary"  is  typical:) 


The  Introduction  xi 

"  We  have  received  two  late  numbers  of  the  CALIFORNIA*^ 
dim,  dirty  little  paper  printed  in  Monterey  on  the  worn-out  ma 
terials  of  one  of  the  old  Calif  or  nia  WAR  PRESSES.//  is  published 
and  edited  by  Walter  Colt  on  and  Robert  Semple,the  one  a  WHIN 
ING  SYCOPHANT,  and  the  other  an  OVER-GROWN  LICK-SPIT 
TLE.  At  the  top  of  one  of  the  papers  we  find  the  words  'please  ex 
change. 'This  would  be  considered  in  almost  any  other  country  a 
bare-faced  attempt  to  swindle  us.  We  should  consider  it  so  now 
were  it  not  for  the  peculiar  situation  of  our  country  which  in 
duces  us  to  do  a  great  deal  for  others  in  order  for  them  to  do  us  a 
lit  tie  good. . . .  We  have  concluded  to  give  our  paper  to  them  this 
year,  so  as  to  afford  them  some  insight  into  the  manner  in  which 
a  Republican  newspaper  should  be  conducted.  'They  appear  now 
to  be  awfully  verdant." 

(  Down  through  the  seventies  and  eighties  the  tradition  per- 
sitfed, newspapers  being  bought  and  read,  as  a  historian  of 
journalism  asserts,  not  so  much  for  news  as  to  see  who  was 
getting  "lambasted"  that  day.  It  is  not  strange,  then,  that 
journals  of  redoubtable  pugnacity  were  popular,  or  that  edi 
tors  favored  writers  who  were  likely  to  excel  in  the  gladia 
torial  style.  It  is  significant  that  public  praise  jirst  came  to 
Bierce  through  his  articles  in  the  caustic  NEWS  LETTER, 
widely  re  ad  on  the  Pacific  Coast  during  the  seventies; Qnce 
launched  in  this  line, he  became  locally  famous  for  his  fierce 
and  witty  article  sin  the  ARGON  AUTandt/ieWASp9andfor 
many  years  his  column  Pr  a  tt  1  e  in  the  Ex  A  MINER  was,  in  the 
words  ofMr.BaileyMillard,"the  most  wickedly  clever,  the 
most  audaciously  personal,  and  the  most  eagerly  devoured 
column  qfcauseriet/iat  ever  was  printed  in  this  country'' 


Xll 


The  Introduction 


In  1896  Bierce  'was  sent  to  Washington  to  fight,  through 
the  Hearst  newspapers, the  "refunding  bill"  which  Col  Us 
P.  Huntington  was  trying  to  get  passed,releasing  his  Cen 
tral  Pacific  Railroad  from  its  obligations  to  the  government. 
A  year  later  he  went  again  to  Washington, where  he  re 
mained  during  the  rest  of  his  journalistic  career,  as  corres 
pondent  for  the  New  York  AMERICAN,  conducting  also  for 
some  years  a  department  in  the  COSMOPOLITAN. 

Much  of  Bierce' s  best  work  was  done  in  those  years  in  San 
Francisco.  Through  the  columns  oftheWASp  and  the  EX 
AMINER  his  wit  played  free;  he  wielded  an  extraordinary 
influence;  his  trenchant  criticism  made  and  unmade  repu 
tations — literary  and  otherwise. But  this  to  Bierce  was  most 
ly"  journalism,  a  thing  so  low  that  it  cannot  be  mentioned  in 
the  same  breath  with  literature!'  His  real  interest  lay  else 
where.  Throughout  the  early  eighties  he  devoted  himself  to 
writing  stories;  all  were  rejected  by  the  magazine  editors  to 
whom  he  offered  them.  Whenjinally  in  l8qo  he  gathered 
these  stories  together  into  book  form  and  offered  them  to  the 
leading  publishers  of  the  country, they  too, would  have  none 
of  them . ' '  These  men,' '  writes  Mr.  Bailey  Mi  Hard, ( '  admit 
ted  the  purity  of  his  diction  and  the  magic  of  his  haunting 
power,  but  the  stories  were  regarded  as  revolting!' 

At  last, in  1 8  QI, his  first  book  of ^stories ,Tales  of  Soldiers 
and  Civilians,  saw  the  reluctant  light  of  day.  It  had  this  for 
foreword: 

"Denied  existence  by  the  chief -publishing  houses  of  the  country, 
this  book  owes  itself  to  Mr. E.  L.  G.  Steele,  merchant,  of  this  city, 


The  Introduction 


Xlll 


[San  Francisco].  In  attesting  Mr.  Steeles  faith  in  his  judgment 
and  his  friend jt  will  serve  its  author  s  main  and  best  ambition" 

There  is  Biercean  pugnacity  in  these  words;  the  author 
flings  down  the  gauntlet  with  a  confident  gesture.  But  it 
cannot  be  said  that  anything  much  happened  to  discomfit 
the  publishing  houses  of  little  faith.  Apparently, Bierce  had 
thought  to  appeal  past  the  dull  and  unjust  verdict  of  such 
lower  courts  to  the  higher  tribunal  of  the  critics  and  possibly 
an  elect  group  of  general  readers  who  might  be  expected  to 
recognize  and  welcome  something  rare.  But  judgment  was 
scarcely  reversed.  Only  a  few  critics  were  discerning,  and 
the  book  had  no  vogue.  When  The  Monk  and  the  Hang 
man's  Daughter  was  published  by  F.  y.Schulte  and  Com 
pany,  Chic  ago  ,t he  next  year,  and  Can  Such  Things  Be  by 
The  C  as  sell  Publishing  Company,  the  year  following,  a  few 
enthusiastic  critics  could flnd  no  words  strong  enough  to  de 
scribe  Bierce's  vivid  imagination,  his  uncanny  divination 
of  atavistic  terrors  in  man  s  consciousness, his  chiseled  per 
fection  of  style;  but  the  critics  who  disapproved  had  even 
more  trouble  in  finding  words  strong  enough  for  their  pur 
poses  and,  as  before,  there  was  no  general  appreciation. 

For  the  next  twenty  years  Ambrose  Bierce  was  a  prolific 
writer  but,  whatever  the  reason,  no  further  volumes  of  sto 
ries  from  his  pen  were  presented  to  the  world.  Black  Beetles 
in  Amber,  a  collection  of  satiric  verse,  had  appeared  the 
same  year  as  The  Monk  and  the  Hangman's  Daughter ; 
then  for  seven  years,  with  the  exception  of  a  republic  ation 
by  G.P.Putnam's  Sons  0/Tales  of  Soldiers  and  Civilians 


XIV 


The  Introduction 


under  the  title,  In  the  Midst  of  Life,  no  books  by  Bierce. 
In  l8qg  appeared  Fantastic  Fables;  in  ipoj  Shapes  of 
Clay,  more  satiric  verse ;  in  igo6  The  Cynic's  Word 
Book,  ^  dictionary  of  nicked  epigrams;  in  IQOQ  Write  it 
Right,  a  blacklist  of  literary  faults,  and  The  Shadow  on 
the  Dial,  a  collection  of  essays  covering,  to  quote  from  the 
preface  ofS.  O .  Howes,  ((a  wide  range  of  subjects,  embrac 
ing  among  other  things,  government,  dreams,  writers  of  dia 
lect  and  dogs" — Mr.  Howes  might  have  heightened  his  cres 
cendo  by  adding"  emancipatedwoman";  and  finally — IQOq 
to  igi2 — The  Collected  Works  of  Ambrose  Bierce, 
containing  all  his  work  previously  published  in  book  form, 
save  the  two  last  mentioned,  and  much  more  besides,  all  col 
lected  and  edited  by  Bierce  himself. 

On  October  2, 1913,  Ambrose  Bierce,  having  settled  his 
business  affairs, I  eft  Washingtonfor  a  trip  through  the  south 
ern  states,  declaring  in  letters  his  purpose  of  going  into  Mex 
ico  and  later  on  to  South  America.  The  fullest  account  of  his 
trip  and  his  plans  is  afforded  by  a  newspaper  clipping  he 
sent  his  niece  in  a  letter  dated  November  6,  IQIJ;  through 
the  commonplaceness  of  the  reportorial  vocabulary  shines  out 
the  vivid  personality  that  was  making  its  final  exit: 

"  Traveling  over  the  same  ground  that  he  had  covered  with 
General 'Hazens brigade duringthedvilWar^AmbroseEierce^ 
famed  writer  and  noted  critic,has  arrived  in  New  Orleans. Not 
that  this  city  was  one  of  the  •places figuring  in  his  campaigns  ^f or 
he  was  here  after  and  not  during  the  war.  He  has  come  to  New 
Orleans  in  a  haphazard  ^fancy-free  way,  making  a  trip  toward 


The  Introduction 


XV 


Mexico.  The  places  that  he  has  visited  on  the  way  down  have  be 
come  famous  in  song  and  story— places  where  the  greatest  battles 
were  fought, where  the  moon  shone  at  night  on  the  burial corps ; 
and  where  in  day  the  sun  shone  bright  on  polished  bayonets  and 
the  smoke  drifted  up  ward  from  the  cannon  mouths. 

"For  Mr. Bier ce  was  at  Chickamauga;  he  was  at  Shiloh;  at 
Murfreesboro;  Kenesaw  Mountain,  Franklin  and  Nashville. 
And  then  when  wounded  during  the  Atlanta  campaign  he  was 
invalided  home.  He  'has  never  amounted  to  much  since  then,'  he 
said  Saturday.  But  his  stories  of  the  great  struggle,  living  as 
deathless  characterizations  ofthebloody  episodes.standforwhat 
he  'has  amounted  to  since  then.' 

"Perhaps  it  was  in  mourning  for  the  dead  over  whose  battle 
fields  he  has  been  wending  his  way  toward  New  Orleans  that 
Mr.  Bierce  was  dressed  in  black.  From  head  to  foot  he  was 
attired  in  this  color,  except  where  the  white  cuffs  and  collar 
and  shirt  front  showed  through.  He  even  carried  a  walking 
cane,  black  as  ebony  and  unrelieved  by  gold  or  silver.  But  his 
eyes,  blue  and  piercing  as  when  they  strove  to  see  through  the 
smoke  at  Chickamauga,  retained  all  the  fire  of  the  indomitable 
fighter. 

"  'I'm  on  my  way  to  Mexico,  because  I  like  the  game /  he  said, 
'Hike  the  fighting;  I  want  to  see  it.  And  then  I  do  nt  think  Amer 
icans  are  as  oppressed  there  as  they  say  they  are,  and  I  want  to 
get  at  the  true  facts  of  the  case.  Of  course,?  m  not  going  into  the 
country  if  I  find  it  unsafe  for  Americans  to  be  there, but  I  want  to 
take  a  trip  diagonally  across  from  northeast  to  southwest  by 
horseback,  and  then  take  ship  for  South  America,  go  over  the 
Andes  and  across  that  continent,  if  possible,  and  come  back  to 
America  again. 

""There  is  no  family  that  I  have  to  take  care  of;  I've  retired 
from  writing  and  Pm  going  to  take  a  rest.  No,  my  trip  isntfor 


XVI 


The  Introduction 


local  color.  I've  retired  just  the  same  as  a  merchant  or  business 
man  retires.  Pm  leaving  the  field  for  the  younger  authors' 

"An  inquisitive  question  was  interjected  as  to  whether  Mr. 
Eierce  had  acquired  a  competency  only  from  his  writings ',  but  he 
did  not  take  offense. 

"  'My  wants  are  few,  and  modest^  he  saidj and  my  royalties 
give  me  quite  enough  to  live  on.  There  isnt  much  that  I  needy 
and  I  spend  my  time  in  quiet  travel.  For  the  last  five  years  I 
haven  t  done  any  writing.  Don V you  think  that  after  a  man  has 
worked  as  long  as  I  have  that  he  deserves  a  rest?  But  perhaps 
after  I  have  rested  I  might  work  some  more— lean  t  tell,  there 
are  so  many  things— '  and  the  straightforward  blue  eyes  took  on 
a  far  away  look,  '  there  are  so  many  things  that  might  happen  be 
tween  now  and  when  I  come  back.  My  trip  might  take  several 
years, and  Pm  an  old  man  now.' 

"Except for  the  thick^snow-white  hair  no  one  would  think  him 
old.  His  hands  are  steady r,  and  he  stands  up  straight  and  tall— 
perhaps  six  feet" 

In  December  of  that  same  year  the  last  letter  he  is  known 
to  have  written  was  received  by  his  daughter.  It  is  dated 
from  Chihuahua,  and  mentions  casually  that  he  has  at 
tached  himself  unofficially  to  a  division  of  Villa  s  army,  and 
speaks  of  a  prospective  advance  on  Ojinaga.  No  further 
word  has  ever  come  from  or  of  Ambrose  Eierce.  Whether 
illness  overtook  him,  then  an  old  man  of  seventy -one,  and 
death  suddenly,  or  whether,  preferring  to  go  foaming  over 
a  precipice  rather  than  to  straggle  out  in  sandy  deltas,  he 
deliberately  went  where  he  knew  death  was,  no  one  can  say. 
His  last  letters,  daunt  less,  grave,  tender,  do  not  say,  though 
they  suggest  much.  "Tou  must  try  to  forgive  my  obstinacy 


The  Introduction 


XVll 


in  not  'perishing*  where  I  am"he  wrote  as  he  left  Wash 
ington.  "I  want  to  be  where  something  worth  while  is  going 
on,  or  where  nothing  whatever  is  going  on."  "  Good-bye — 
if  you  hear  of  my  being  stood  up  against  a  Mexican  stone 
wall  and  shot  to  rags  please  know  that  I  think  that  a  pretty 
good  way  to  depart  this  life.  It  beats  old  age,  disease,  or  fall 
ing  down  the  cellar  stairs.  To  be  a  Gringo  in  Mexico— ah, 
that  is  euthan  asia  ! ' '  Whatever  end  Ambrose  Bier ce found 
in  Mexico,  the  lines  of  George  Sterling  well  express  what 
must  have  been  his  attitude  in  meeting  it: 

"Dream you  he  was  afraid  to  live? 

Dream  you  he  was  afraid  to  die? 

Or  that,  a  sup-pliant  of  the  sky, 
He  begged  the  gods  to  keep  or  give? 
Not  thus  the  shadow-maker  stood, 

Whose  scrutiny  dissolved  so  well 

Our  thin  mirage  of  H even  or  Hell— 
The  doubtful  evil,  dubious  good.  .  .  . 

"If  now  his  name  be  with  the  dead. 

And  where  the  gaunt  agaves  flow' r, 

The  vulture  and  the  wolf  devour 
The  lion-heart,  the  lion-head, 
Be  sure  that  heart  and  head  were  laid 

In  wisdom  down,  content  to  die; 

Be  sure  he  faced  the  Starless  Sky 
Unduped,  unmurmuring,  unafraid" 

In  any  consideration  of  the  work  of  Ambrose  Bierce,  a  cen 
tral  question  must  be  'why  it  contains  so  much  that  is  trivial 
or  ephemeral.  Another  question  facing  every  critic  of  Bier ce, 


xyin 


The  Introduction 


is  why  the  fundament  ally  original  point  of  view,  the  clarity 
of  workmanship  of  his  best  things — mainly  stories — did  not 
win  him  immediate  and  general  recognition. 

A  partial  answer  to  both  questions  is  to  be  found  in  a  cer 
tain  discord  between  Bierce  and  his  setting.  Bier re,  para 
doxically,  combined  the  bizarre  in  substance,  the  severely 
restrained  and  compressedin form.  An  ironic  mask  covered 
a  deep-seated  sensibility;  but  sensibility  and  irony  were  alike 
subject  to  an  uncompromising  truthfulness;  he  would  have 
given  deep-throated-acclaim  to  C lough s 

"  But  play  no  tricks  upon  thy  soul,.O  man, 
Let  truth  be.  truth,  and  life  the  thing  it  can." 

He  had  the  aristocrat  '-s  contempt  for  mass  feeling,  a  selec- 
tiveness  carried  so  far  that  he  instinctively  chose  for  themes 
the  picked  per  son  and  experience,  the  one  decisive  moment  of 
crisis.  He  viewed  his  characters  not  in  relation  to  other  men 
and  in  normal  activities;  he  isolated  them— often  amid  ab 
normalities. 

All  this  was  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  literary  fashion  ob 
taining  when  he  dipped  his  pen  to  try  his  luck  as  a  creative 
artist.  The  most  popular  novelist  of  the  day  'was  Dickens-; 
the  most  popular  poet,  Tennyson.  Neither  looked  straight  at 
life;  both  veiled  it:  one  in  benevolence,  the  other  in  beauty. 
Direct  and  painful  verities  were  best  tolerated  by  the  read 
ing  public  when  exhibited  as  instances  of  the  workings  of 
natural  law.  The  spectator  of  the  macrocosm  in  action  could 
stomach  thewanton  destruction  of  a  given  human  atom;  one 
so  privileged  could  and  did  excuse  the  Creator  for  small  mis- 


The  Introduction 


XIX 


takes  like  harrying  Hetty  Sorrel  I  to  the  g  al low  s foot,  be 
cause  of  the  conviction  that,  taking  the  Universe  by  and 
large,  "He  was  a  good  fellow,  and  'twould  all  be  well'' 
This  benevolent  optimism  was  the  offspring  of  a  strange 
pair,  evangelicism  and  evolution;  and  in  the  minds  of  the 
great  public  whom  Eierce,  under  other  circumstances  and 
with  a  slightly  different  mixture  of  qualities  in  himself, 
might  have  conquered,  it  became  a  large,  soft  insincerity 
that  demanded  "happy  endings"  a  profuse  broadness  of 
treatment  prohibitive  of  harsh  simplicity,  a  swathing  of 
elemental  emotion  in  gentility  or  moral  edification. 

But  to  Eierce 's  mind,  "noble  and  nude  and  antique"  this 
mid-  Victorian  draping  and  bedecking  of  "  unpleasant 
truths"  was  abhorrent.  Absolutely  direct  and  unafraid— 
not  only  in  his  personal  relations  but,  what  is  more  rare,  in 
his  thinking — he  regarded  easy  optimism,  sure  that  God  is 
in  his  heaven  with  consequently  good  effects  upon  the  world, 
as  blindness,  and  the  hopefulness  that  demanded  always 
the  "happy  ending"  as  silly.  In  many  significant  pas  sages 
Eierce  s  attitude  is  the  ironic  one  of  Voltaire:  "  'Had  not 
Pang/oss  got  himself  hanged,'  replied  Candide,  'he  would 
have  given  us  most  excellent  advice  in  this  emergency ;  for 
he  was  a  profound  philosopher!  "Eierce  didnotfearto  bring 
in  disconcerting  evidence  that  a  priori  reasoning  may  prove 
a  not  infallible  guide ,  that  causes  do  not  always  produce  the 
effects  complacently pre- argued,  and  that  the  notion  of  this 
as  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds  is  sometimes  beside  the  point. 

The  themes  permitted  by  such  an  attitude  were  certain  to 


XX 


The  Introduction 


displease  the  readers  of  that  period.  In  Tales  of  Soldiers 
and  Civilians,  his  first  book  of  stories,  he  looks  squarely  and 
grimly  at  one  much  bedecked  subject  of  the  time — war ;  not 
the  fine  gay  gallantry  of  war,  the  music  and  the  march 
ing  and  the  romantic  episodes,  but  the  ghastly  horror  of  it; 
through  his  vivid,dramatic  passages  beats  a  hatred  of  war, 
not  merely  "unrighteous"  war,  but  all  war,  the  more  dis 
quieting  because  never  allowed  to  become  articulate.  With 
bitter  but  beautiful  truth  he  brings  each  tale  to  its  tragic 
close,  always  with  one  last  turn  of  the  screw, one  unexpected 
horror  more.  And  in  this  book — note  the  solemn  implication 
of  the  title  he  later  gave  it,  In  the  Midst  of  Life— as  well 
as  in  the  next,  Can  Such  Things  Be,  is  still  another  sub 
ject  which  Eierce  alone  in  his  generation  seemed  unafraid 
to  consider  curiously:  "Death,  in  warfare  and  in  the  horrid 
guise  of  the  supernatur al,was  painted  over  and  over. Man  s 
terror  in  the  face  of  death  gave  the  artist  his  cue  for  his  won 
derful  physic  aland  psychologic  microscopies.  You  could  not 
pin  this  work  down  as  realism,  or  as  romance;  it  was  the 
greatest  human  drama— the  conflict  between  life  and  death— 
fused  through  genius.  Not  Zola,  in  the  endless  pages  of  his 
De\)2iC\e,not  the  great  Tolstoi  in  hisgreat^Nzr  and  Peace 
had  ever  paintedwar,  horridwar,  more  faithfully  than  any 
of  the  stories  of  this  book;  not  Maupassant  had  invented  out 
of  war  s  terrible  truths  more  dramatically  imagined  plots. 
.  .  .  There  painted  an  artist  who  had  seen  the  thing  itself, 
and  being  a  genius,  had  made  it  an  art  still  greater. 
Death  of  the  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, was  the  clos- 


The  Introduction 


XXI 


ing  note  of  every  line  of  the  ten  stories  of 'war  in  this  book. 
The  brilliant,  spectacular  death  that  came  to  such  senseless 
bravery  as  Tennyson  hymned  for  the  music-hall  intelligence 
in  his  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade;  the  vision- starting, 
slow,  soul-drugging  death  by  hanging;  the  multiplied,  com 
prehensible  death  that  makes  rivers  near  battlefields  run 
red;  the  death  that  comes  by  sheer  terror;  death  actual  and 
imagined — every  sort  of  death  was  on  these  pages, so  painted 
as  to  make  Pierre  Loti's  Book  of  Pity  and  Death  seem 
but  feeble  fumbling' ' 

Now  death  by  the  mid-Victorian  was  considered  almost 
as  undesirable  an  element  in  society  as  sex  itself.  Both  must 
be  passed  over  in  silence  or  presented  decently  draped.  In 
the  eighties  any  writer  who  dealt  unabashed  with  death 
was  regarded  as  an  unpleasant  per  son. "Revolting!  "cried 
the  critics  when  they  read  Eierce  s  Chickamauga  and 
The  Affair  at  Coulter's  Notch. 

fierce  s  style, too,  by  its  very  fineness,  alienated  his  public. 
Superior,  keen,  perfect  in  detail, finite,  compressed — such 
was  his  manner  in  the  free  and  easy, prolix,  rambling,  mul 
titudinous  nineteenth  century. 

Bierce  himself  knew  that  although  it  is  always  the  fashion 
to  jeer  at  fashion,  its  rule  is  absolute  for  all  that,  whether 
it  be  fashion  in  boots  or  books. 

"A  correspondent  of  mine"  he  wrote  in  i88j  in  his  EX 
AMINER  column,  "a  well-known  and  clever  writer, appears 
surprised  because  I  do  not  like  the  work  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson .  I  am  equally  hurt  to  know  that  he  does.  If  he  was 


XX11 


The  Introduction 


ever  a  boy  he  knows  that  the  year  is  divided,  not  into  seasons 
and  months,  as  is  vulgarly  supposed,  but  into  '  top  time,9 
' marble  time,'  'kite  time,'  et  cetera,  and  woe  to  the  boy 
who  ignores  the  unwritten  calendar,  amusing  himself  ac 
cording  to  the  dictates  of  an  irresponsible  conscience.  I  ven 
ture  to  remind  my  correspondent  that  a  somewhat  similar 
system  obtains  in  matters  of  literature — awordwhich  I  beg 
him  to  observe  means  fiction.  There  are, for  illustration — 
or  rather,  there  were — James  time,Howells  time, Crawford 
time, R.US  sell  time  andConway  time, each  epoch — named  for 
the  immortal  novelist  of  the  time  being — lasting,generally 
speaking,  as  much  as  a  year. . . .  All  the  more  rigorous  is  the 
law  of  observance.  It  is  not  permitted  to  admire  y  ones  in 
Smith  time.  I  must  point  out  to  my  heedless  correspondent 
that  this  is  not  Stevenson  time — that  was  last  year  I '  If  was 
decidedly  not  Bierce  time  when  Eierce  s  stories  appeared. 

And  there  was  in  him  no  compromise — or  so  he  thought. 
"A  great  artist"  he  wrote  to  George  Sterling,  "is  superior 
to  his  world  and  his  time,  or  at  least  to  his  parish  and  his 
day!'  His  practical  application  of  that  belief  is  shown  in  a 
letter  to  a  magazine  editor  who  had  just  rejected  a  satire  he 
had  submitted: 

6 '  Even  you  askfor  literature — if  my  stories  are  literature, 
as  you  are  good  enough  to  imply.  ( By  the  way,  all  the  leading 
publishers  of  the  country  turned  down  that  book  until  they 
saw  it  published  without  them  by  a  merchant  in  San  Fran 
cisco  and  another  sort  of  publishers  in  London,  Leipsic  and 
Paris.}  Well, you  wouldn't  do  a  thing  to  one  of  my  stories! 


The  Introduction 


XXI 11 


"No,  thank  you;  if  I  have  to  'write  rot,  I  prefer  to  do  it  for 
the  newspapers,  which  make  no  false  pretenses  and  are 
frankly  rotten,  and  in  which  the  badness  of  a  bad  thing  es 
capes  detection  or  is  forgotten  as  soon  as  it  is  cold. 

"I know  how  to  write  a  story  {of ' happy  ending  sort} for 
magazine  readers  for  whom  literature  is  too  good, but  I  will 
not  do  so,  so  long  as  stealing  is  more  honorable  and  interesting. 

I  have  offered  you the  best  that  lam  able  to  make;  and 

now  you  must  excuse  me."  In  these  two  utterances  we  have 
some  clue  to  the  secret  of  his  having  ceased,  in  1 8  93, to  pub 
lish  stories.  Vigorously  refusing  to  yield  in  the  slightest  de 
gree  to  the  public  so  far  as  his  stories  were  concerned,  he 
abandoned  his  best  field  of  creative  effort  and  became  almost 
exclusively  a"  columnist"  and  a  satirist;  he  put  his  world  to 
rout,  and  left  his  "parish  and  his  day"  resplendent ly  the 
victors. 

All  this  must  not  be  taken  to  mean  that  the  "form  and 
pressure  of  the  time"  put  into  Bierce  what  was  not  there. 
Even  in  his  creative  work  he  had  a  satiric  bent;  his  early 
training  and  associations,  too,  had  been  in  journalistic  sa 
tire.  Under  any  circumstances  he  undoubtedly  would  have 
written  satire — columns  of  it  for  his  daily  bread,  books  of 
it  for  self-expression ;  but  under  more  favorable  circum 
stances  he  would  have  kept  on  writing  other  sort  of  books 
as  well.  Lovers  of  literature  may  well  lament  that  Bierce' s 
insistence  on  going  his  way  and  the  demands  of  his '  'parish ' ' 
forced  him  to  overdevelop  one  power  to  the  almost  complete 
paralysis  of  another  and  a  perhaps  finer. 


XXIV 


The  Introduction 


As  a  satirist  Bier ce  was  the  best  America  has  produced, 
perhaps  the  best  since  Voltaire.  But  when  he  confined  him 
self  to  "  exploring  the  ways  of  hate  as  a  form  of  creative  en 
ergy"  it  was  with  a  hurt  in  his  soul,  and  with  some  intel 
lectual  and  spiritual  confusion.  There  resulted  a  kink  in  his 
nature,  a  contradiction  that  appears  repeatedly,  not  only  in 
his  life,  but  in  his  writings.  A  sir  iking  instance  is  found  in 
his  article  To  Train  a  Writer : 

"He  should,  for  ex  ample,  for  get  that  he  is  an  American  and 
remember  that  he  is  a  man.  He  should  be  neither  Christian  nor 
Jew,  nor  Buddhist,  nor  Mahometan,  nor  Snake  Worshiper.  To 
local  standards  of  right  and  wrong  he  should  be  civilly  indifferent. 
In  the  virtues,  so-called,  he  should  discern  only  the  rough  notes 
of  a  general  expediency;  infixedmoralprinciples  only  time-saving 
predecisions  of  cases  not  yet  before  the  court  of  conscience.  Hap 
piness  should  disclose  itself  to  his  enlargingintelligence  as  the  end 
and  purpose  of  life;  art  and  love  as  the  only  means  to  happiness. 
He  should  free  himself  of  all  doctrines,  theories,  etiquettes, poli 
tics, simplifying  his  life  and  mind,  attaining  clarity  with  breadth 
andunity  with  height.  To  him  a  continent  shouldnot  seem  widenor 
a  century  long.  And  it  would  be  needful  that  he  know  and  have 
an  ever-present  consciousness  that  this  is  a  world  of  fools  and 
rogues,  blind  with  superstition,  tormented  with  envy,  consumed 
with  vanity,  selfish,  false, cruel,  cursed  with  illusions— frothing 
mad!" 

Up  to  that  last  sentence  Ambrose  Eierce  beholds  this  world 
as  one  inhere  tolerance,  breadth  of  view,  simplicity  of  life 
and  mind,  clear  thinking,  are  at  most  attainable,  at  least 
worthy  of  the  effort  to  attain;  he  regards  life  as  purposive, 
as  having  happiness  for  its  end,  and  art  and  love  as  the 


The  Introduction 


XXV 


means  to  that  good  end.  But  suddenly  the  string  from  'which 
he  has  been  evoking  these  broad  harmonies  snaps  'with  a 
snarl.  All  is  evil  and  hopeless — "frothing  mad."  Both  views 
cannot  be  held  simultaneously  by  the  same  mind.  Which  was 
the  realbeliefofAmbroseBierce  ?  The  former,  it  seems  clear. 
But  he  has  been  hired  to  be  a  satirist. 

On  the  original  fabric  of  Bierce  s  mind  the  satiric  strand 
has  encroached  more  than  the  design  allows.  There  results 
not  only  considerable  obliteration  of  the  main  design,  but 
confusion  in  the  substituted  one.  For  it  is  significant  that 
much  of  the  work  of  Bier ce  seems  to  be  that  of  what  he  would 
have  called  a f utilitarian, that  he  seldoms  seems  able  to  find 
a  suit  able  field  for  his  satire,  afoeman  worthy  of  such  per 
fect  steel  as  he  brings  to  the  encounter;  he  fights  on  all  fields, 
on  both  sides,  against  all  comers;  ubiquitous,  indiscrimi 
nate,  he  is  as  one  who  screams  in  pain  at  his  own  futility, 
one  who  "might  be  heard,"  as  he  says  of  our  civilization, 
"from  afar  in  space  as  a  scolding  and  a  riot."  That  Bierce 
would  have  spent  so  much  of  his  superb  power  on  the  trivial 
and  the  ephemeral, breaking  magnificent  vials  of  wrath  on 
Oakland  nobodies, preserving  insignificant  black  beetles  in 
the  amber  of  his  art,  is  not  merely,  as  it  has  long  been,  cause 
of  amazement  to  the  critics ;  it  is  cause  of  laughter  to  the 
gods,  and  of  weeping  among  Bierce  s  true  admirers. 

Some  may  argue  that  Bierce  s  failure  to  attain  interna 
tional  or  even  national  fame  cannot  be  ascribed  solely  to  a 
lack  of  concord  between  the  man  and  his  time  and  to  the  con 
sequent  reaction  in  him.  It  is  true  that  in  Bierce  s  work  is  a 


XXVI 


The  Introduction 


sort  of  paucity — not  a  mere  lack  of  printed  pages,  but  of  the 
fulness  of  creative  activity  that  makes  Byron, for  example, 
though  vulgar  and  casual,  a  literary  mountain  peak.Eierce 
has  but  few  themes, few  moods;  his  literary  river  runs  clear 
and  sparkling,  but  confined— a  narrow  current,  not  the  opu 
lent  stream  that  waters  wide  plains  of  thought  and  fee  ling. 
Nor  has  Bierce  the  power  to  weave  individual  entities  and 
situations  into  a  broad  pattern  of  existence,  which  is  the  dis 
tinguishing  mark  of  such  writers  as  Thackeray,  Balzac, 
and  Tolstoi  among  the  great  dead,  and  Bennett  and  Wells 
among  the  lesser  living.  Bierce 's  interest  does  not  lie  in  the 
group  experience  nor  even  in  the  experience  of  the  individual 
through  a  long  period.  His  unit  of  time  is  the  minute,  not  the 
month.  It  is  significant  that  he  never  wrote  a  novel — unless 
The  Monk  and  the  Hangman's  Daughter  be  reckoned 
one — and  that  he  held  remarkable  views  of  the  novel  as  a 
literary  form,  witness  this  pas  sage  from  Prattle,  written  in 
1887: 

"English  novelists  are  not  great  because  the  English  novel  is 
dead— deader  thanQueen  Anne  ather  deadest. ^heveinis  worked 
out. It  was  a  thin  one  and  didnot^  go  down!  A  single  century  from 
the  time  when  Richardson  sank  the  discovery  shaft  it  had  al 
ready  begun  to*  pinch  out. '  The  miners  of  today  have  abandoned 
it  altogether  to  search  for  ' pockets  J  and  some  of  the  best  of  them 
are  merely 'chloriding  the  dumps'  To  expect  another  good  novel 
in  English  is  to  expect  the  gold  to' grow*  again." 

It  may  well  be  that  at  the  bottom  of  this  sweeping  con 
demnation  was  an  instinctive  recognition  of  his  own  lack 
of  constructive  power  on  a  large  scale. 


The  Introduction 


XXVll 


But  an  artist,  like  a  nation,  should  be  judged  not  by  'what 
he  cannot  do,  but  by 'what  he  can.  That  Bierce  could  not  paint 
the  large  canvas  does  not  make  him  negligible  or  even  incon 
siderable.  He  is  by  no  means  a  second-rate  writer;  he  is  a 
Jirst-rate  writer  who  could  not  consistently  show  hisjirst- 
rateness. 

When  he  did  show  hisjirst-rateness,  what  is  it?  In  all  his 
best  work  there  is  originality,  a  rare  and  precious  idiosyn- 
cracy;  his  point  of  view, his  themes  are  rich  with  it.  Above 
all  writers  Bierce  can  present — brilliantly  present — start 
ling  fragments  of  life,  carved  out  from  attendant  circum 
stance;  isolated  problems  of  character  and  action;  sharply 
bitten  etchings  of  individual  men  under  momentary  stresses 
and  in  bizarre  situations.  Through  his  prodigious  emotional 
perceptivity  he  has  the  power  of  feeling  and  making  us  feel 
some  strange,  perverse  accident  of  fate,  destructive  of  the 
individual — of  making  us  feel  it  to  be  real  and  terrible. 
This  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  do.  De  Maupassant  said  that 
men  were  killed  every  year  in  Paris  by  the  falling  of  tiles 
from  the  roof,  but  if  he  got  rid  of  a  principal  character  in 
that  way,  he  should  be  hooted  at.  Bierce  can  make  us  accept 
as  valid  and  tragic  events  more  odd  than  the  one  de  Mau 
passant  had  to  reject.  "In  the  line  of  the  startling, — half 
Poe,halfMerimee — he  cannot  have  many  superiors"  says 

Arnold  Bennett "A  story  like  An  Occurrence  at 

Owl  Creek  Bridge — well,  Edgar  Allan  Poe  might  have 
deigned  to  sign  it.  And  that  is  something. 

"  He  possesses  a  remarkable  style — what  Kipling  s  would 


xxviii  The  Introduction 

have  been  hadKipling  been  born  with  any  significance  of  the 
word'arf — and  a  quite  strangely  remarkable  perception  of 
beauty.  There  is  a  feeling  for  landscape  in  A  H  orseman  in 
the  Sky  which  recalls  the  exquisite  opening  of  that  indif 
ferent  novel,  Les  Freres  Zemganno  by  Edmond  de  Gon- 
c  our t, and  which  no  English  novelist  exceptThomas  Hardy, 
and  possibly  Charles  M. arriott,couldmatch?  The  fee  ling  for 
landscape  which  Bennett  notes  is  but  one  part  of  a  greater 
power — the  power  to  make  concrete  and  visible, action, per 
son,  place.  Bierce's  descriptions  of  Civil  War  battles  in  his 
Bits  of  Autobiography  are  the  best  descriptions  of  battle 
ever  written.  He  lays  out  the  field  with  map-like  clearness, 
marshals  men  and  events  with  precision  and  economy,  but 
his  account  never  becomes  exposition — it  is  drama.  Real 
battles  move  swiftly;  accounts  make  them  seem  labored  and 
slow.  What  narrator  saveBierce  can  convey  the  sense  of 
their  being  lightly  swift, and,  again  and  again  the  shock  of 
surprise  the  event  itself  must  have  given  ? 

This-  could  not  be  were  it  not  for  his  verbal  restraint.  In 
his  descriptions  is  no  welter  of  adjectives  and  adverbs; 
strong  exact  nouns  and  verbs  do  the  work,  and  this  means 
that  the  veritable  object  and  action  are  brought  forward,  not 
qualifying  talk  around  and  about  them.  And  this,  again, 
could  not  be  were  it  not  for  what  is,  beyond  all  others,  his 
greatest  quality — absolute  precision.  "I  sometimes  think" 
he  once  wrote  playfully  about  letters  of  his  having  been  mis 
understood,  "I  sometimes  think  that  I  am  the  only  man  in  the 
world  who  understands  the  meaning  of  the  written  word. 


The  Introduction 


XXIX 


Or  the  only  one  who  does  not!'  A  reader  of  Ambrose  Bierce 
comes  almost  to  believe  that  not  till  now  has  he  found  a  writer 
who  understands — completely — the  meaning  of  the  written 
word.  He  has  the  power  to  bring  out  new  meanings  in  well- 
worn  words,  so  setting  them  as  to  evoke  brilliant  signifi 
cances  never  before  revealed.  He  gives  to  one  phrase  the 
beauty,  the  compressed  suggestion  of  a  poem;  his  titles — 
Black  Beetles  in  Amber,  Ashes  of  the  Beacon,  Cob 
webs  from  an  Empty  Skull  are  masterpieces  in  minia 
ture.  That  he  should  have  a  gift  of  coining  striking  words 
naturally  follows :  in  his  later  years  he  has  fallen  into  his 
"anecdotage"  a  certain  Socialistis  the  greatest  "f utilitar 
ian"  of  them  all,"  femininies"— and  so  on  infinitely.  Often 
the  smaller  the  Bierce  an  gem,  the  more  exquisite  the  work 
manship.  One  word  has  all  the  sparkle  of  an  epigram. 

In  such  skill AmbroseBierceis  not  surpassed  by  any  writer, 
ancient  or  modern;  it  gives  him  rank  among  the  few  mas 
ters  who  afford  that  highest  form  of  intellectual  delight,  the 
immediate  recognition  of  a  clear  idea  perfectly  set  forth  in 
fitting  words — wit' s  twin  brother,  evoking  that  rare  joy,  the 
sudden,  secret  laughter  of  the  mind.  So  much  for  Bierce  the 
artist;  the  man  is  found  in  these  letters.  If  further  clue  to 
the  real  nature  of  Ambrose  Bierce  were  needed  it  is  to  be 
found  in  a  conversation  he  had  in  his  later  years  with  a 
young  girl:  "Tou  must  bevery  proud,  Mr. Bierce,  of  all  your 
books  and  your  fame?"  "No"  he  answered  rather  sadly, 
"you  will  come  to  know  that  all  that  is  worth  while  in  life 
is  the  love  you  have  had  for  a  few  people  near  to  you." 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

by  GEORGE  STERLING 


XXX111 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

by  GEORGE  STERLING 


THOUGH  from  boy  hood  a  lover  of  tales  of  the  terrible, 
it  was  not  until  my  twenty-secondyear  that  I  heard 
of  Ambrose  Bierce,  I  having  then  been  for  ten 
months  a  resident  of  Oakland,  California.  But  in  the  fall  of 
the  year  1 8  y  I  my  friend  Roosevelt  yohnson,  newly  arrived 
from  our  town  of  birth,  Sag  Harbor,  New  Tork,  asked  me 
if  I  were  acquainted  with  his  work,  adding  that  he  had  been 
told  that  Bierce  was  the  author  of  stories  not  inferior  in 
awsomeness  to  the  most  terrible  ofPoe's. 

We  made  inquiry  and  found  that  Bierce  had  for  several 
years  been  writing  columns  of  critical  comment,  satirically 
named  Prattle, for  the  editorial  page  of  the  Sunday  Ex  AM- 
INER,  of  San  Francisco.  As  my  uncle,  of  whose  household  I 
had  be  en  for  nearly  ay  ear  a  member,  did  not  subscribe  to  that 
journal, I  had  unfortunately  overlooked  these  weekly  contri 
butions  to  the  wit  and  sanity  of  our  we  stern  literature — an 
omission  for  which  we  partially  consoled  ourselves  by  sub 
sequently  reading  with  great  eagerness  each  installment  of 
Prattle  as  it  appeared.  But,  so  far  as  his  short  stories  were 
concerned,  we  had  to  content  ourselves  with  the  assurance 
of  a  neighbor  that  "they'd  scare  an  owl  off  a  tombstone'' 


XXXIV 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


However, later  in  the  autumn,  while  making  a  pilgrimage 
to  the  home  of  our  greatly  worshipped  Joaquin  Miller,  we 
became  ac  quain  ted  with  Albert,  an  elder  brother  of  Bierce  s, 
a  man  who  was  to  be  one  of  my  dearest  of  friends  to  the  day 
of  his  death,  in  March, 1914.  From  him  we  obtained  much 
to  gratify  our  not  unnatural  curiosity  as  to  this  mysterious 
being, who, from  his  isolation  on  a  lonely  mountain  above  the 
Nap  a  Valley, scattered  weekly  thunderbolts  on  the  fool, the 
pretender,  and  the  knave,  and  cast  ridicule  or  censure  on 
many  that  sat  in  the  seats  of  the  mighty.  For  none, how  ever 
socially  or  financially  powerful, was  safe  from  the  stab  of 
that  aculeate  pen,the  venom  of  whose  ink  is  to  gleam  vividly 
from  the  pages  of  literature  for  centuries  yet  to  come. 

For  Bierce  is  of  the  immortals.  'That fact, known,  I  think, 
to  him,  and  seeming  then  more  and  more  evident  to  some  of 
his  admirers, has  become  plainly  apparent  to  any  one  who  can 
appraise  the  matter  with  eyes  that  see  beyond  the  flimsy  arti 
fices  that  bulk  so  large  and  so  briefly  in  the  literary  arena. 
Bierce  was  a  sculptor  who  wrought  in  hardest  crystal. 

I  was  not  to  be  so  fortunate  as  to  become  acquainted  with 
him  until  after  the  publication  of  his  first  volume  of  short 
stories,  entitledTzlzs  of  Soldiers  and  Civilians.  That  mild 
title  gives  scant  indication  of  the  terrors  that  await  the  un- 
warnedreader.Irecall that Ihungfascinatedover  the  book, 
unable  to  lay  it  down  until  the  last  of  its  printed  dooms  had 
become  an  imperishable  portion  of  the  memory.  The  tales  are 
told  with  a  calmness  and  re  serve  that  make  most  ofPoes 
seem  somewhat  boyish  and  melodramatic  by  comparison. 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


XXXV 


The  greatest  of  them  seems  to  me  to  be  An  Occurrence  at 
Owl  Creek  Bridge,  though  I  am  perennially  charmed  by 
the  'weird  beauty  of  An  Inhabitant  of  Carcosa,  a  tale  of 
unique  and  unforgettable  quality. 

/  Bierce,  born  in  Ohio  in  1842,  came  to  San  Francisco  soon 
after  the  close  of  the  Civil  War  sit  is  amusing  to  learn  that 
he  'was  one  of  a  family  of  eleven  children, male  and  female, 
the  Christian  name  of  each  of 'whom  began  with  the  letter 
"^4!"  Obtaining  employment  atjirst  in  the  United  States 
Mint,  whither  Albert,  airways  his  favorite  brother, had  pre 
ceded  him,  he  soon  gravitated  to  journalism,  doing  his  first 
work  on  the  San  Francisco  NEWS  LETTER.  His  brother 
once  told  me  that  he  (Ambrose")  had  from  boyhood  been  eager 
to  become  a  writer  and  was  expectant  of  success  at  that  pur 
suit. 

Isolated  from  most  men  by  the  exalted  and  austere  habit 
of  his  thought, Bierce  finally  suffered  a  corresponding  exile 
of  the  body,  and  was  forced  to  live  in  high  altitudes,  which 
of  necessity  are  lonely.  This  latter  banishment  was  on  ac 
count  of  chronic  and  utterly  incurable  asthma,  an  ailment 
contracted  in  what  might  almost  be  termed  a  characteristic 
manner.  Bierce  had  no  fear  of  the  dead  folk  and  their  marble 
city.  From  occasional  strollings  by  night  in  Laurel  Hill 
Cemetery,  in  San  Francisco,  his  spirit "  drank  repose"  and 
was  able  to  attain  a  serenity  in  which  the  cares  of  daytime 
existence  faded  to  nothingness.  It  was  on  one  of  those  strolls 
that  he  elected  to  lie  for  awhile  in  the  moonlight  on  aflat 
tombstone,  and  awakening  late  in  the  night ,  found  himself 


XXXVI 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


thoroughly  chilled,  and  a  subsequent  victim  of  the  disease 
that  was  to  cast  so  dark  a  shadow  overhis following  years. 
For  his  sufferings  from  asthma  were  terrible,  arising  often 
to  a  height  that  required  that  he  be  put  under  the  influence 
of  chloroform. 

So  afflicted,  he  found  visits  to  the  lowlands  a  thing  not  to 
be  indulged  in  with  impunity.  For  many  years  such  trips 
terminated  invariably  in  a  severe  attack  of  his  ailment, 
and  he  was  driven  back  to  his  heights  shaken  and  harassed. 
But  he  found  such  visits  both  necessary  and  pleasant  on 
occasion,  and  it  was  during  one  that  he  made  in  the  summer 
of  1 8  C)  2  that  I  first  made  his  acquaintance,  while  he  was 
temporarily  a  guest  at  his  brother  Alb  erf  s  camp  on  a  rocky, 
laurel-covered  knoll  on  the  eastern  shore  of  Lake  Temescal, 
a  spot  now  crossed  by  the  tracks  of  the  Oakland,  Antioch 
and  Ea 'stern  Railway. 

I  am  not  likely  to  forget  his  first  night  among  us.  A  tent 
being,  for  his  ailment,  insufficiently  ventilated,  he  decided 
to  sleep  by  the  campfire,  and  I,  carried  aw  ay  by  my  youthful 
hero-worship,  must  partially  gratify  it  by  occupying  the 
side  of  the  fire  opposite  to  him.  I  had  a  comfortable  cot  in  my 
tent,  and  was  unaccustomed  at  the  time  to  sleeping  on  the 
ground,  the  consequence  being  that  I  awoke  at  least  every 
half -hour.  But  awake  as  often  as  I  might,  always  I  found 
Bierce  lying  on  his  back  in  the  dim  light  of  the  embers,  his 
gaze  fixed  on  the  stars  of  the  zenith.  I  shall  not  forget  the 
gaze  of  those  eyes,  the  most  piercingly  blue,  under  yellow 
shaggy  brows,  that  I  have  ever  seen. 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


XXXVll 


After  that,  I  saw  him  at  his  brother  s  home  in  Berkeley,  at 
irregular  internals,  and  once  paid  him  a  visit  at  his  own 
temporary  home  at  Sky  lands,  above  Wrights,  in  Santa  Clara 
County, whit  her  he  had  moved  from  How  ell  Mountain,  in 
Nap  a  County.  It  was  on  this  visit  that  I  was  emboldened 
to  ask  his  opinion  on  certain  verses  of  mine,  the  ambition  to 
become  a  poet  having  infected  me  at  the  scandalously  mature 
age  of  twenty -six.  He  was  hospitable  to  my  wish,  and  I  was 
fortunate  enough  to  be  his  pupil  almost  to  the  year  of  his 
going  forth  from  among  us.  During  the  greater  part  of  that 
time  he  was  a  resident  of  Washington,  D.  C., whit  her  he  had 
gone  in  behalf  of  the  San  Francisco  EXAMINER,  to  aid  in 
defeating  (as  was  successfully  accomplished^  the  Funding 
Bill  proposed  by  the  Southern  Pacific  Company.  It  was  on 
this  occasion  that  he  electrified  the  Senate  s  committee  by 
repeatedly  refusing  to  shake  the  hand  of  the  proponent  of 
that  measure,  no  less  formidable  an  individual  than  Collis 
P.  Hunting  ton. 

For  Bierce  carried  into  actual  practice  his  convictions  on 
ethical  matters.  Secure  in  his  own  self-respect,  and  valuing 
his  friendship  or  approval  to  a  high  degree,  he  refused  to 
make,  as  he  put  it, "  a  harlot  of  his  friendship!'  Indeed,  he 
once  told  me  that  it  was  his  rule,  on  subsequently  discover 
ing  the  unworth  of  a  per  son  to  whom  a  less  fastidious  friend 
had  without  previous  warning  introduced  him,  to  write  a 
letter  to  that  person  and  assure  him  that  he  regarded  the 
introduction  as  a  mistake,  and  that  the  twain  were  thence 
forth  to ' '  meet  as  strangers! ' '  He  also  once  informed  me  that 


XXXV111 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


he  did  not  care  to  be  introduced  to  persons  whom  he  had 
criticized,  or  was  about  to  criticize,  in  print ."  I  might  get 
to  like  the  beggar"  was  his  comment L," and then  I '  d have 
one  less  pelt  in  my  collection" 

In  his  criticism  of  my  own  work,  he  seldom  used  more  than 
suggest  ion, realizing, no  doubt, the  sensitiveness  of  the  tyro 
in  poetry.  It  has  been  hinted  to  me  that  he  laid,  as  it  were, 
a  hand  of  ice  on  my  youthful  enthusiasms,  but  that, to  such 
extent  as  it  may  be  true,  was,  I  think,  a  good  thing  for  a 
pupil  of  the  art,  youth  being  apt  to  gush  and  become  over- 
sentimental.  Most  poets  would  give  much  to  be  able  to  ob 
literate  some  of  their  earlier  work,  and  he  must  have  saved 
me  a  major  portion  of  such  putative  embarrassment.  Re 
viewing  the  manuscripts  that  bear  his  marginal  counsels, 
I  can  now  see  that  such  suggestions  were  all  "indicated" 
though  at  the  time  I  dissented  from  some  of  them.  It  was  one 
of  his  tenets  that  a  critic  should  "  keep  his  heart  out  of  his 
head"  (to  use  his  own  words},when  sitting  in  judgment  on 
the  work  of  writers  whom  he  knew  and  liked.  But  I  can 
not  but  think  that  he  was  guilty  of  sad  violations  of  that 
rule,  especially  in  my  own  case. 

Bierce  lived  many  years  in  Washington  before  making 
a  visit  to  his  old  home.  That  happened  in  IQIO,  in  which 
year  he  visited  me  at  Carmel,  and  we  afterwards  camped 
for  several  weeks  together  with  his  brother  and  nephew, 
in  To semite.  I  grew  to  know  him  better  in  those  days,  and 
he  found  us  hospitable,  in  the  main  degree,  to  his  view  of 
things , socialism  being  the  only  is  sue  on  which  we  were  not 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


XXXIX 


in  accord.  It  led  to  many  'warm  arguments, which ,  as  usual, 
conduced  nowhere  but  to  the  suspicion  that  truth  in  such 
matters  was  mainly  a  question  of  taste. 

I  saw  him  again  in  the  summer  ofiqil,  which  he  spent 
at  Sag  Harbor.  We  were  much  on  the  water,  guests  of  my 
uncle  in  his  power-yacht  "La  Mascotte  II."  He  was  a 
devotee  of  canoeing,  and  made  many  trips  on  the  warm  and 
shallow  bays  of  eastern  Long  Island,  which  he  seemed  to 
prefer  to  the  less  spacious  reaches  of  the  Potomac.  He  re- 
visited  California  in  the  fall  of  the  next  year, a  trip  on  which 
we  saw  him  for  the  last  time.  An  excursion  to  the  Grand 
Canyon  was  occasionally  proposed, but  nothing  came  of  it, 
nor  did  he  consent  to  be  again  my  guest  at  Carmel,  on  the 
rather  surprising  excuse  that  the  village  contained  too  many 
anarchists  !  And  in  November,  spfj,  I  received  my  last 
letter  from  him,  he  being  then  in  Laredo,  Texas,  about  to 
cross  the  border  into  warring  Mexico. 

Why  he  should  have  gone  forth  on  so  hazardous  an  en 
terprise  is  for  the  most  part  a  matter  of  conjecture.  It  may 
have  been  in  the  spiritof adventure, or  out  of  boredom,  or  he 
may  not,  even,  have  been  jesting  when  he  wrote  to  an  inti 
mate  friend  that,  ashamed  of  having  lived  so  long,  and  not 
caring  to  end  his  life  by  his  own  hand,  he  was  going  across 
the  border  and  let  the  Mexicans  perform  for  him  that  ser 
vice.  But  he  wrote  to  others  that  he  purposed  to  extend  his 
pilgrimage  as  far  as  South  America,  to  cross  the  Andes, 
and  return  to  New  Tork  by  way  of  a  steamer  from  Buenos 
Ayres.  At  any  rate,  we  know,  from  letters  written  during 


xl         A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

the  winter  months,  that  he  had  unofficially  attached  him 
self  to  a  section  of  Villa*  s  army,  even  taking  an  active  part 
in  the  fighting.  Hew  as  heard  from  until  the  close  oflplj; 
after  that  date  the  mist  closes  in  upon  his  trail,  and  we  are 
left  to  surmise  what  we  may.  Many  rumors  as  to  his  fate 
have  come  out  of  Mexico,  one  of  them  even  placing  him  in 
the  trenches  of  Flanders.  These  rumors  have  been, so  far  as 
possible,  investigated:  all  end  in  nothing.  The  only  one  that 
seems  in  the  least  degree  illuminative  is  the  tale  brought  by 
a  veteran  reporter  from  the  City  of  Mexico,  and  published 
in  the  San  Francisco  B  u  L  L  E  T  i  N  .  It  is  the  story  of  a  soldier  in 
Villa  s  army,  one  of  a  detachment  that  captured,  near  the 
village  oflcamole,  an  ammunition  train  of  the  Carran- 
zistas.  One  of  the  prisoners  was  a  sturdy,  white-haired, 
ruddy-faced  Gringo,  who,  according  to  the  tale,  went  be 
fore  the  firing  squad  with  an  Indian  muleteer,  as  sole  com 
panion  in  misfortune.  The  description  of  the  manner— in 
different, even  contemptuous — with  which  the  white-haired 
man  met  his  death  seems  so  characteristic  of  Bierce  that 
one  would  almost  be  inclined  to  give  credence  to  the  tale, 
impossible  though  it  may  be  of  verification.  But  the  date  of 
the  tragedy  being  given  as  late  in  igi$,it  seems  incredible 
that  Bierce  could  have  escaped  observation  for  so  long  a 
period, with  so  many  persons  in  Mexico  eager  to  know  of  his 
fate.  It  is  far  more  likely  that  he  met  his  death  at  the  hands 
of  a  roving  band  of  outlaws  or  guerrilla  soldiery. 

I  have  had  often  in  mind  the  vision  of  his  capture  by  such 
a  squad,  their  discovery  of  the  considerable  amount  of  gold 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce         xli 

coin  that  he  'was  known  to  carry  on  his  person,  and  his  im 
mediate  condemnation  and  execution  as  a  spy  in  order  that 
they  might  retain  possession  of  the  booty.  Naturally,  such 
proceedings  would  not  have  been  reported, from  fear  of  the 
necessity  of  sharing  with  those  "higher  up"  And  so  the  veil 
would  have  remained  drawn,  and  impenetrable  to  vision. 
Through  the  efforts  of  the  War  Department,  all  United 
States  Consuls  were  questioned  as  to  Bierce' s  possible  de 
parture  from  the  country;  all  Americans  visiting  or  resid 
ing  in  Mexico  were  begged  for  information — even  pros 
pectors.  But  the  story  of  the  reporter  is  the  sole  one  that  seems 
partially  credible.  To  such  darkness  did  so  shining  and  fear 
less  a  soul  go  forth. 

It  is  now  over  eight  years  since  that  disappearance,  and 
though  the  likelihood  of  his  existence  in  the  flesh  seems  faint 
indeed,  the  storm  of  detraction  and  obloquy  that  he  always 
insisted  would  follow  his  demise  has  never  broken,  is  not 
even  on  the  horizon. Instead, he  seems  to  be  remembered  with 
tolerance  by  even  those  whom  he  visited  with  a  chastening 
pen.  Each  year  of  darkness  but  makes  the  star  of  his  fame 
increase  and  brighten,  but  we  have,  I  think,  no  full  con 
ception  as  yet  of  his  greatness,  no  adequate  realization  of 
how  wide  and  permanent  a  fame  he  has  won.  It  is  signifi 
cant  that  some  of  the  discerning  admire  him  for  one  phase 
of  his  work,  some  for  another.  For  instance,  the  clear-headed 
H.  L.  Mencken  acclaims  him  as  thejirst  wit  of  America, 
but  will  have  none  of  his  tales ;  while  others,  somewhat  dis 
concerted  by  the  cynicism  pervading  much  of  his  wit, place 


xlii        A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

him  amongthe foremost  exponents  of  the  art  of  the  short  story. 
Others  again  prefer  his  humor  (for  he  'was  humorist  as 
well  as  wit},  and  yet  others  like  most  the  force,  clarity  and 
keen  insight  of  his  innumerable  essays  and  briefer  comments 
on  mundane  affairs.  Personally,  I  have  always  regarded 
PoesFall  of  the  House  of  Usher  as  our  greatest  tale;  close 
to  that  come,  in  my  opinion,  at  least  a  dozen  of  Bierce  s  sto 
ries, whether  of  the  soldier  or  civilian.  He  has  himself  stated 
in  Prattle:  "I  am  not  a  poet."  And  yet  he  wrote  poetry, 
on  occasion,  of  a  high  order,  his  Invocation  being  one  of  the 
noblest  poems  in  the  tongue.  Some  of  his  satirical  verse  seems 
to  me  as  terrible  in  its  withering  invective  as  any  that  has 
been  written  by  classic  satirist s, not  exceptingjuvenal and 
Swift.  Like  the  victims  of  their  merciless  pens,  his,  too,  will 
be  forgiven  and  forgotten.  Today  no  one  knows,  nor  cares, 
whether  or  not  those  long-dead  offenders  gave  just  offense. 
The  grave  has  closed  over  accuser  and  accused,  and  the  only 
thing  that  matters  is  that  a  great  mind  was  permitted  to 
function.  One  may  smile  or  sigh  over  the  satire,  but  one  must 
also  realize  that  even  the  satirist  had  his  own  weaknesses, 
and  could  have  been  as  savagely  attacked  by  a  mentality 
as  keen  as  his  own.  Men  as  a  whole  will  never  greatly  care 
for  satire,  each  recognizing,  true  enough,glimpsesof  him 
self  in  the  invective,  but  sensing  as  well  its  fundamental 
bias  and  cruelty.  However,  Bierce  thought  best  of  himself 
as  a  satirist. 

Naturally,  Bierce  carried  his  wit  and  humor  into  his  im 
mediate  human  relationships.  I  best  recall  an  occasion, 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce       xliii 

when,  in  my  first  year  of  acquaintance  with  him,  we  were 
both  guests  at  the  home  of  the  painter,  J.  H.  E.  Partington. 
It  happened  that  a  bowl  of  nasturtiums  adorned  the  center 
table,  and  having  been  taught  by  Father  'Tabb,  the  poet, 
to  relish  that  flower,  I  managed  to  consume  most  of  them 
before  the  close  of  the  evening,  knowing  there  were  plenty 
more  to  be  had  in  the  garden  outside.  Someone  at  last  re 
marked:"  Why,  George  has  eaten  all  the  nasturtiums!  Go 
out  and  bring  some  more. ' '  At  which  Bierce  dryly  and  justly 
remarked: ' '  No — bring  some  thistles  !"  It  is  an  indication, 
however,  of  his  real  kindness  of  heart  that,  observing  my  con 
fusion, he  afterwards  apologized  to  me  for  what  he  termed 
a  thoughtless  jest.  It  was,  nevertheless,  well  deserved. 
I  recall  even  more  distinctly  a  scene  of  another  setting. 
This  concerns  itself  with  Bierce' s  son,  Leigh,  then  a  youth 
in  the  early  twenties.  At  the  time  (circa  1894}  I  was  a 
brother  lodger  with  them  in  an  Oakland  apartment  house. 
Toung  Bierce  had  contracted  a  liaison  with  a  girl  of  his 
own  age,  and  his  father,  determined  to  end  the  affair,  had 
appointed  an  hour  for  discussion  of  the  matter.  The  youth 
entered  his  father  s  rooms  defiant  and  re  solute:  within  an 
hour  he  appeared  weeping, and  cried  out  to  me,  waiting  for 
him  in  his  own  room:  "My  father  is  a  greater  man  than 
Christ!  He  has  suffered  more  than  Christ!"  And  the  affair 
of  the  heart  was  promptly  terminated. 

One  conversant  with  Bierce  only  as  a  controversionalist 
and  censor  morum  was, almost  of  necessity, constrained  to 
imagine  him  a  misanthrope,  a  soured  and  cynical  recluse. 


xliv       A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

Only  'when  one  was  privileged  to  see  him  among  his  inti 
mates  could  one  obtain  glimpses  of  his  true  nature,  which 
was  consider -ate ', generous,  even  affectionate.  Only  the  wav 
ing  of  the  red  flag  of  Socialism  could  rouse  in  him  what 
seemed  to  us  others  a  certain  savageness  of  intolerance. 
Needless  to  say,  we  did  not  often  invoke  it,  for  he  was  an 
ill  man  with  whom  to  bandy  words.  It  was  my  hope,  at  one 
time,  to  involve  him  and*Jack  Lo7idon  in  a  controversy  on 
the  subject, but  London  dec  lined  the  oral  encounter, prefer 
ring  one  with  the  written  word.  Nothing  came  of  the  plan, 
which  is  a  pity,  as  each  was  a  supreme  exponent  of  his  point 
of  view,  fierce  subsequently  attended  one  of  the  midsummer 
encampments  of  the  Bohemian  Club,  of  which  he  was  once 
the  secretary,  in  their  redwood  grove  near  the  R  ussian  river. 
Hearing  that  London  was  present,  he  asked  why  they  had 
not  been  mutually  introduced,  and  I  was  forced  to  tell  him 
that  I  feared  that  they '  dbe,  verbally,  at  each  other  s  throats, 
within  an  hour.  "Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Bierce.  "Bring 
him  around!  T II  treat  him  like  a  Dutch  Uncle."  He  kept 
his  word,  and  seemed  as  much  attracted  to  London  as  Lon 
don  was  to  him.  But  I  was  always  ill  at  ease  when  they 
were  conversing.  I  do  not  think  the  two  men  ever  met  again. 
Bierce  was  the  cleanest  man,  personally,  of  whom  I  have 
knowledge — almost  fanatically  so,  if  such  a  thing  be  possi 
ble.  Even  during  our  weeks  of  camping  in  the  Tosemite,  he 
would  spend  two  hours  on  his  morning  toilet  in  the  privacy 
of  his  tent.  His  nephew  always  insisted  that  the  time  was 
devoted  to  shaving  himself  from  face  to  foot!  He  was  also 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce        xlv 

a  most  modest  man,  and  I  still  recall  his  decided  objections 
to  my  bathing  attire  when  at  the  swimming-pool  of  the  Bohe 
mian  Club,  in  theRussianRiver.  Compared  to  many  of  those 
visible,  it  seemed  more  than  adequate;  but  he  had  another 
opinion  of  it.  He  was  a  good,  even  an  eminent,  tankard-man, 
and  retained  a  clear  judgment  under  any  amount  of  pota 
tions.  He  preferred  wine  (especially  a  dry  vin  du  pays,  usu 
ally  a  sauterne]  to  "hard  likker,"  in  this  respect  differing 
in  taste  from  his  elder  brother.  In  the  days  when  I  first  made 
his  acquaintance,!  was  accustomed  to  roam  the  hills  beyond 
Oakland  and  Berkeley  from  Cordonices  Creek  to  Leona 
Heights,  in  company  with  Albert  Bierce,  his  son  Carlton, 
R.L.  (^lDick"}Partington,Leigh  Bierce  (Ambrose's sur 
viving  son}  and  other  youths.  On  such  occasions  I  sometimes 
hid  a  superfluous  bottle  of  port  or  sherry  in  a  convenient 
spot,  and  Bierce,  afterwards  accompanying  us  on  several 
such  outings,  pretended  to  believe  that  I  had  such  fiagons 
concealed  under  each  bush  or  rock  in  the  reach  and  breadth 
of  the  hills,  and  would,  to  carry  out  the  jest,  hunt  zealously 
in  such  recesses.  I  could  wish  that  he  were  less  often  unsuc 
cessful  in  the  search,  now  that  he  has  had66  the  coal-black 
wine"  to  drink. 

'Though  an  appreciable  portion  of  his  satire  hints  at  mis 
anthropy,  Bierce,  while  profoundly  a  pessimist,  was,  by  his 
own  confession  to  me,"  a  lover  of  his  country  and  his  fellow- 
men"  and  was  ever  ready  to  proffer  assistance  in  the  time 
of  need  and  sympathy  in  the  hour  of  sorrow.  His  was  a  great 
and  tender  heart,  and  giving  of  it  greatly,  he  expected,  or 


xlvi       A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

rather  hoped  for,  a  return  as  great.  It  may  have  been  by 
reason  of  the  frustration  of  such  hopes  that  he  so  often  broke 
'with  old  and,  despite  his  doubts,  appreciative  friends.  His 
brother  Albert  once  toldme  that  he  (Ambrose]  hadneverbeen 
"quite  the  same,"  after  the  wound  in  the  he  ad  that  he  re 
ceived  in  the  battle  ofKenesaw  Mountain,  but  had  a  ten 
dency  to  become  easily  off  ended  and  to  show  that  resentment. 
Such  estrangements  as  he  and  his  friends  suffered  are  not, 
therefore,  matters  on  which  one  should  sit  in  judgment.  It 
is  sad  to  know  that  he  went  so  gladly  from  life, grieved  and 
disappointed.  But  the  white  flame  of  Art  that  he  tended  for 
nearly  half  a  century  was  never  permitted  to  grow  faint 
nor  smoky,  and  it  burned  to  the  last  with  a  pure  brilliance. 
Perhaps,  he  bore  witness  to  what  he  had  found  most  admir 
able  and  enduring  in  life  in  the  following  words,  the  conclu 
sion  of  the  finest  of  his  essays: 

"Literature  and  art  are  about  all  that  the  world  really 
cares  for  in  the  end;  those  who  make  them  are  not  without 
justification  in  regarding  themselves  as  masters  in  the  House 
of  Life  and  all  others  as  their  servitors.  In  the  babble  and 
clamor,  the  pranks  and  antics  of  its  countless  incapables, 
the  tremendous  dignity  of  the  profession  of  letters  is  over 
looked;  but  when,  casting  a  retrospective  eye  into6  the  dark 
backward  and  abysm  of  time'  to  where  beyond  these  voices 
is  the  peace  of  desolation,  we  note  the  majesty  of  the  few 
immortals  and  compare  them  with  the  pygmy  figures  of  their 
contemporary  kings,  warrior  sand  men  of  action  generally — 
when  across  the  silent  battle-fields  and  hushed  fora  where 


A  Memoir  of  Ambrose  Bierce      xlvii 

the  dull  destinies  of  nations  'were  determined,  nobody  cares 
how,  we  hear 

like  ocean  on  a  western  beach 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey, 

then  we  appraise  literature  at  its  true  value,  and  how  little 
worth  while  seems  all  else  with  which  Man  is  pleased  to 
occupy  his  fussy  soul  and  futile  hands!" 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

You  will  not,  I  hope,  mind  my  saying  that  the  first  part 
of  your  letter  was  so  pleasing  that  it  almost  solved  the  dis- 
appointment  created  by  the  other  part.  For  that  is  a  bit  dis 
couraging.  Let  me  explain. 

You  receive  my  suggestion  about  trying  your  hand  *  *  * 
at  writing,  with  assent  and  apparently  pleasure.  But,  alas, 
not  for  love  of  the  art,  but  for  the  purpose  of  helping  God  re 
pair  his  botchwork  world.  You  want  to^reform  things/' poor 
girl  —to  rise  and  lay  about  you,  slaying  monsters  and  liber 
ating  captive  maids.  You  would  "  help  to  alter  for  the  better 
the  position  of  working-women/'  You  would  be  a  mission 
ary  —  and  the  rest  of  it.  Perhaps  I  shall  not  make  myself 
understood  when  I  say  that  this  discourages  me;  that  in  such 
aims  (worthy  as  they  are)  I  would  do  nothing  to  assist  you; 
that  such  ambitions  are  not  only  impracticable  but  incom 
patible  with  the  spirit  that  gives  success  in  art;  that  such 
ends  are  a  prostitution  of  art;  that  "helpful"  writing  is 
dull  reading.  If  you  had  had  more  experience  of  life  I  should 
regard  what  you  say  as  entirely  conclusive  against  your 
possession  of  any  talent  of  a  literary  kind.  But  you  are 
so  young  and  untaught  in  that  way  —  and  I  have  the 
testimony  of  little  felicities  and  purely  literary  touches 
(apparently  unconscious)  in  your  letters  —  perhaps  your 


Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 


unschooled  heart  and  hope  should  not  be  held  as  having 
spoken  the  conclusive  word.  But  surely,  my  child  —  as 
surely  as  anything  in  mathematics  —  Art  will  laurel  no 
brow  having  a  divided  allegiance.  Love  the  world  as  much 
as  you  will,  but  serve  it  otherwise.  The  best  service  you 
can  perform  by  writing  is  to  write  well  with  no  care  for 
anything  but  that.  Plant  and  water  and  let  God  give  the 
increase  if  he  will,  and  to  whom  it  shall  please  him. 

Suppose  your  father  were  to  "help  working-  women  "  by 
painting  no  pictures  but  such  (of  their  ugly  surroundings, 
say)  as  would  incite  them  to  help  themselves,  or  others  to 
help  them.  Suppose  you  should  play  no  music  but  such  as  — 
but  I  need  go  no  further.  Literature  (I  don't  mean  journal 
ism)  is  an  art;  —  it  is  not  a  form  of  benevolence.  It  has  noth 
ing  to  do  with<creform,"  and  when  used  as  a  means  of  reform 
suffers  accordingly  and  justly.  Unless  you  can  feel  that  way 
I  cannot  advise  you  to  meddle  with  it. 

It  would  be  dishonest  in  me  to  accept  your  praise  for 
what  I  wrote  of  the  Homestead  Works  quarrel  —  unless 
you  should  praise  it  for  being  well  written  and  true.  I  have 
no  sympathies  with  that  savage  fight  between  the  two 
kinds  of  rascals,  and  no  desire  to  assist  either  —  except  to 
better  hearts  and  manners.  The  love  of  truth  is  good 
enough  motive  for  me  when  I  write  of  my  fellowmen.  I 
like  many  things  in  this  world  and  a  few  persons  —  I  like 
you,  for  example;  but  after  they  are  served  I  have  no  love 
to  waste  upon  the  irreclaimable  mass  of  brutality  that  we 
know  as  "mankind."  Compassion,  yes  —  I  am  sincerely 
sorry  that  they  are  brutes. 

Yes,  I  wrote  the  article  "The  Human  Liver."  Your  criti 
cism  is  erroneous.  My  opportunities  of  knowing  women's 
feelings  toward  Mrs.  Grundy  are  better  than  yours.  They 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce  5 

hate  her  with  a  horrible  antipathy;  but  they  cower  all  the 
same.  The  fact  that  they  are  a  part  of  her  mitigates  neither 

their  hatred  nor  their  fear. 

*  *  * 

After  next  Monday  I  shall  probably  be  in  St.  Helena,  but 
if  you  will  be  so  good  as  still  to  write  to  me  please  address 
me  here  until  I  apprise  you  of  my  removal;  for  I  shall  in 
tercept  my  letters  at  St.  Helena,  wherever  addressed.  And 
maybe  you  will  write  before  Monday.  I  need  not  say  how 
pleasant  it  is  for  me  to  hear  from  you.  And  I  shall  want  to 
know  what  you  think  of  what  I  say  about  your  "spirit  of 
reform." 

How  I  should  have  liked  to  pass  that  Sunday  in  camp 
with  you  all.  And  to-day— I  wonder  if  you  are  there  to-day. 
I  feel  a  peculiar  affection  for  that  place. 

Please  give  my  love  to  all  your  people,  and  forgive  my 
intolerably  long  letters  —  or  retaliate  in  kind. 

Sincerely  your  friend, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

*•»«•»£*> 

I  KNOW,  DEAR  BLANCHE,  of  the  disagreement  among  men  St.  Helena, 
as  to  the  nature  and  aims  of  literature;  and  the  subject  is  f8u9g2ust  I5> 
too  "long"  to  discuss.  I  will  only  say  that  it  seems  to  me 
that  men  holding  Tolstoi's  view  are  not  properly  literary 
men  (that  is  to  say,  artists)  at  all.  They  are  "mission 
aries,"  who,  in  their  zeal  to  lay  about  them,  do  not  scruple 
to  seize  any  weapon  that  they  can  lay  their  hands  on;  they 
would  grab  a  crucifix  to  beat  a  dog.  The  dog  is  well  beaten, 
no  doubt  (which  makes  him  a  worse  dog  than  he  was  be 
fore)  but  note  the  condition  of  the  crucifix!  The  work  of 
these  men  is  better,  of  course,  than  the  work  of  men  of 
truer  art  and  inferior  brains;  but  always  you  see  the  possi- 


6  T'he  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

bilities  —  possibilities  to  them  —  which  they  have  missed  or 
consciously  sacrificed  to  their  fad.  And  after  all  they  do  no 
good.  The  world  does  not  wish  to  be  helped.  The  poor  wish 
only  to  be  rich,  which  is  impossible,  not  to  be  better.  They 
would  like  to  be  rich  in  order  to  be  worse,  generally  speak 
ing.  And  your  working  woman  (also  generally  speaking) 
does  not  wish  to  be  virtuous;  despite  her  insincere  depre 
cation  she  would  not  let  the  existing  system  be  altered  if 
she  could  help  it.  Individual  men  and  women  can  be 
assisted;  and  happily  some  are  worthy  of  assistance.  No 
class  of  mankind,  no  tribe,  no  nation  is  worth  the  sacrifice 
of  one  good  man  or  woman;  for  not  only  is  their  average 
worth  low,  but  they  like  it  that  way;  and  in  trying  to  help 
them  you  fail  to  help  the  good  individuals.  Your  family, 
your  immediate  friends,  will  give  you  scope  enough  for  all 
your  benevolence.  I  must  include  yourself. 

In  timely  illustration  of  some  of  this  is  an  article  by  In- 
gersoll  in  the  current  North  American  Review  —I  shall  send 
it  you.  It  will  be  nothing  new  to  you;  the  fate  of  the  phil 
anthropist  who  gives  out  of  his  brain  and  heart  instead  of 
his  pocket  —  having  nothing  in  that  —  is  already  known  to 
you.  It  serves  him  richly  right,  too,  for  his  low  taste  in  loving. 
He  who  dilutes,  spreads,  subdivides,  the  love  which  natu 
rally  all  belongs  to  his  family  and  friends  (if  they  are  good) 
should  not  complain  of  non-appreciation.  Love  those,  help 
those,whom  from  personal  knowledge  you  know  to  be  worthy. 
;To  love  and  help  others  is  treason  to  them.  But,  bless  my 
soul!  I  did  not  mean  to  say  all  this. 

But  while  you  seem  clear  as  to  your  own  art,  you  seem 
undecided  as  to  the  one  you  wish  to  take  up.  I  know  the 
strength  and  sweetness  of  the  illusions  (that  is,  Elusions) 
that  you  are  required  to  forego.  I  know  the  abysmal  igno- 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


7 


ranee  of  the  world  and  human  character  which,  as  a  girl, 
you  necessarily  have.  I  know  the  charm  that  inheres  in  the 
beckoning  of  the  Britomarts,  as  they  lean  out  of  their 
dream  to  persuade  you  to  be  as  like  them  as  is  compatible 
with  the  fact  that  you  exist.  But  I  believe,  too,  that  if  you 
are  set  thinking  —  not  reading  —  you  will  find  the  light. 

You  ask  me  of  journalism.  It  is  so  low  a  thing  that  it  may 
be  legitimately  used  as  a  means  of  reform  or  a  means  of 
anything  deemed  worth  accomplishing.  It  is  not  an  art; 
art,  except  in  the  greatest  moderation,  is  damaging  to  it. 
The  man  who  can  write  well  must  not  write  as  well  as  he 
can;  the  others  may,  of  course.  Journalism  has  many  pur 
poses,  and  the  people's  welfare  may  be  one  of  them;  though 
that  is  not  the  purpose-in-chief,  by  much. 

I  don't  mind  your  irony  about  my  looking  upon  the  un 
fortunate  as  merely  "literary  material."  It  is  true  in  so 
far  as  I  consider  them  with  reference  to  literature.  Possibly 
I  might  be  willing  to  help  them  otherwise  —  as  your  father 
might  be  willing  to  help  a  beggar  with  money,  who  is  not 
picturesque  enough  to  go  into  a  picture.  As  you  might  be 
willing  to  give  a  tramp  a  dinner,  yet  unwilling  to  play  "The 
Sweet  Bye-and-Bye,"  or  "  Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,"  to  tickle 
his  ear. 

You  call  me  "master."  Well,  it  is  pleasant  to  think  of 
you  as  a  pupil,  but  —  you  know  the  young  squire  had  to 
watch  his  arms  all  night  before  the  day  of  his  accolade  and 
investiture  with  knighthood.  I  think  I'll  ask  you  to  con 
template  yours  a  little  longer  before  donning  them  —  not 
by  way  of  penance  but  instruction  and  consecration.  When 
you  are  quite  sure  of  the  nature  of  your  call  to  write  — 
quite  sure  that  it  is  not  the  voice  of  "duty"  —  then  let  me 
do  you  such  slight,  poor  service  as  my  limitations  and  the 


8  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

injunctions  of  circumstance  permit.  In  a  few  ways  I  can 
help  you.  *  „  * 

Since  coming  here  I  have  been  ill  all  the  time,  but  it 
seems  my  duty  to  remain  as  long  as  there  is  a  hope  that  I 
can  remain.  If  I  get  free  from  my  disorder  and  the  fear  of  it 
I  shall  go  down  to  San  Francisco  some  day  and  then  try  to 
see  your  people  and  mine.  Perhaps  you  would  help  me  to 
find  my  brother's  new  house  —  if  he  is  living  in  it. 

With  sincere  regards  to  all  your  family,  I  am  most  truly 
your  friend,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

Your  letters  are  very  pleasing  to  me.  I  think  it  nice  of  you 

to  write  them. 

Afrftfrffr 

St.  Helena,    DEAR  BLANCHE, 

!  It  was  not  that  I  forgot  to  mail  you  the  magazine  that  I 
mentioned;  I  could  not  find  it;  but  now  I  send  it. 

My  health  is  bad  again,  and  I  fear  that  I  shall  have  to 
abandon  my  experiment  of  living  here,  and  go  back  to  the 
mountain  —  or  some  mountain.  But  not  directly. 

You  asked  me  what  books  would  be  useful  to  you  —  I'm 
assuming  that  you've  repented  your  sacrilegious  attitude 
toward  literature,  and  will  endeavor  to  thrust  your  pretty 
head  into  the  crown  of  martyrdom  otherwise.  I  may  men 
tion  a  few  from  time  to  time  as  they  occur  to  me.  There  is 
a  little  book  entitled  (I  think)  simply  "English  Composi 
tion."  It  is  by  Prof.  John  Nichol  —  elementary,  in  a  few 
places  erroneous,  but  on  the  whole  rather  better  than  the 
ruck  of  books  on  the  same  subject. 

Read  those  of  Landor's  ''Imaginary  Conversations"  which 
relate  to  literature. 

Read  Longinus, Herbert  Spencer  on  Style,  Pope's  "Essay 
on  Criticism  "  (don't  groan  —  the  detractors  of  Pope  are  not 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce  9 

always  to  have  things  their  own  way),  Lucian  on  the  writ 
ing  of  history  —  though  you  need  not  write  history.  Read 
poor  old  obsolete  Kames' notions;  some  of  them  are  not  half 
bad.  Read  Burke  "On  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful." 

Read— but  that  will  do  at  present.  And  as  you  read  don't 
forget  that  the  rules  of  the  literary  art  are  deduced  from 
the  work  of  the  masters  who  wrote  in  ignorance  of  them  or 
in  unconsciousness  of  them.  That  fixes  their  value;  it  is 
secondary  to  that  of  natural  qualifications.  None  the  less, 
it  is  considerable.  Doubtless  you  have  read  many  —  per 
haps  most  —  of  these  things,  but  to  read  them  with  a  view 
to  profit  as  a  writer  may  be  different.  If  I  could  get  to  San 
Francisco  I  could  dig  out  of  those  artificial  memories,  the 
catalogues  of  the  libraries,  a  lot  of  titles  additional  —  and 
get  you  the  books,  too.  But  I've  a  bad  memory,  and  am 
out  of  the  Book  Belt. 

I  wish  you  would  write  some  little  thing  and  send  it  me 
for  examination.  I  shall  not  judge  it  harshly,  for  this  I 
know:  the  good  writer  (supposing  him  to  be  born  to  the 
trade)  is  not  made  by  reading,  but  by  observing  and  ex 
periencing.  You  have  lived  so  little,  seen  so  little,  that  your 
range  will  necessarily  be  narrow,  but  within  its  lines  I 
know  no  reason  why  you  should  not  do  good  work.  But  it 
is  all  conjectural  —  you  may  fail.  Would  it  hurt  if  I  should 
tell  you  that  I  thought  you  had  failed?  Your  absolute  and 
complete  failure  would  not  affect  in  the  slightest  my 
admiration  of  your  intellect.  I  have  always  half  suspected 
that  it  is  only  second  rate  minds,  and  minds  below  the 
second  rate,  that  hold  their  cleverness  by  so  precarious  a 
tenure  that  they  can  detach  it  for  display  in  words. 

God  bless  you, 

A.  B. 


io  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

St.  Helena,    M¥  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

1892!  I  positively  shall  not  bore  you  with  an  interminated 
screed  this  time.  But  I  thought  you  might  like  to  know 
that  I  have  recovered  my  health,  and  hope  to  be  able  to 
remain  here  for  a  few  months  at  least.  And  if  I  remain  well 
long  enough  to  make  me  reckless  I  shall  visit  your  town 
some  day,  and  maybe  ask  your  mother  to  command  you 
to  let  me  drive  you  to  Berkeley.  It  makes  me  almost  sad 
to  think  of  the  camp  at  the  lake  being  abandoned. 

So  you  liked  my  remarks  on  the  "labor  question."  That 
is  nice  of  you,  but  aren't  you  afraid  your  praise  will  get  me 
into  the  disastrous  literary  habit  of  writing  for  some  one 
pair  of  eyes?  —  your  eyes?  Or  in  resisting  the  temptation  I 
may  go  too  far  in  the  opposite  error.  But  you  do  not  see 
that  it  is  "Art  for  Art's  sake"  —  hateful  phrase!  Certainly 
not,  it  is  not  Art  at  all.  Do  you  forget  the  distinction  I 
pointed  out  between  journalism  and  literature?  Do  you 
not  remember  that  I  told  you  that  the  former  was  of  so 
little  value  that  it  might  be  used  for  anything?  My  news 
paper  work  is  in  no  sense  literature.  It  is  nothing,  and  only 
becomes  something  when  I  give  it  the  very  use  to  which  I 
would  put  nothing  literary.  (Of  course  I  refer  to  my  edi 
torial  and  topical  work.) 

If  you  want  to  learn  to  write  that  kind  of  thing,  so  as  to 
do  good  with  it,  you've  an  easy  task.  Only  it  is  not  worth 
learning  and  the  good  that  you  can  do  with  it  is  not  worth 
doing.  But  literature  —  the  desire  to  do  good  with  that  will 
not  help  you  to  your  means.  It  is  not  a  sufficient  incentive. 
The  Muse  will  not  meet  you  if  you  have  any  work  for  her 
to  do.  Of  course  I  sometimes  like  to  do  good  —  who  does 
not?  And  sometimes  I  am  glad  that  access  to  a  great  num 
ber  of  minds  every  week  gives  me  an  opportunity.  But, 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce  1 1 

thank  Heaven,  I  don't  make  a  business  of  it,  nor  use  in  it 
a  tool  so  delicate  as  to  be  ruined  by  the  service. 

Please  do  not  hesitate  to  send  me  anything  that  you  may 
be  willing  to  write.  If  you  try  to  make  it  perfect  before  you 
let  me  see  it,  it  will  never  come.  My  remarks  about  the 
kind  of  mind  which  holds  its  thoughts  and  feelings  by  so 
precarious  a  tenure  that  they  are  detachable  for  use  by 
others  were  not  made  with  a  forethought  of  your  failure. 

Mr.  Harte  of  the  New  England  Magazine  seems  to  want 
me  to  know  his  work  (I  asked  to)  and  sends  me  a  lot  of  it 
cut  from  the  magazine.  I  pass  it  on  to  you,  and  most  of  it 
is  just  and  true. 

But  I'm  making  another  long  letter. 

I  wish  I  were  not  an  infidel  —  so  that  I  could  say:  "God 
bless  you,"  and  mean  it  literally.  I  wish  there  were  a  God 
to  bless  you,  and  that  He  had  nothing  else  to  do. 

Please  let  me  hear  from  you.  Sincerely,  A.  B. 

*9*4»«a» 
MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

I  have  been  waiting  for  a  full  hour  of  leisure  to  write  you  St.  Helena, 
a  letter,  but  I  shall  never  get  it,  and  so  I'll  write  you  any-  J^!™ 
how.  Come  to  think  of  it,  there  is  nothing  to  say  —  nothing 
that  needs  be  said,  rather,  for  there  is  always  so  much  that 
one  would  like  to  say  to  you,  best  and  most  patient  of 
sayees. 

I'm  sending  you  and  your  father  copies  of  my  book.  Not 
that  I  think  you  (either  of  you)  will  care  for  that  sort  of 
thing,  but  merely  because  your  father  is  my  co-sinner  in 
making  the  book,  and  you  in  sitting  by  and  diverting  my 
mind  from  the  proof-sheets  of  a  part  of  it.  Your  part,  there 
fore,  in  the  work  is  the  typographical  errors.  So  you  are  in 
literature  in  spite  of  yourself. 


1 2  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

I  appreciate  what  you  write  of  my  girl.  She  is  the  best  of 
girls  to  me,  but  God  knoweth  I'm  not  a  proper  person  to 
direct  her  way  of  life.  However,  it  will  not  be  for  long.  A 
dear  friend  of  mine  —  the  widow  of  another  dear  friend  — 
in  London  wants  her,  and  means  to  come  out  here  next 
spring  and  try  to  persuade  me  to  let  her  have  her  —  for  a 
time  at  least.  It  is  likely  that  I  shall.  My  friend  is  wealthy, 
childless  and  devoted  to  both  my  children.  I  wish  that  in 
the  meantime  she  (the  girl)  could  have  the  advantage  of 
association  with  you. 

Please  say  to  your  father  that  I  have  his  verses,  which  I 
promise  myself  pleasure  in  reading. 

You  appear  to  have  given  up  your  ambition  to  "write 
things."  I'm  sorry,  for  "lots"  of  reasons  —  not  the  least 
being  the  selfish  one  that  I  fear  I  shall  be  deprived  of  a 
reason  for  writing  you  long  dull  letters.  Won't  you  play 
at  writing  things  ? 

My  (and  Danziger's)  book,  "The  Monk  and  the  Hang 
man's  Daughter,"  is  to  be  out  next  month.The  Publisher  — 
I  like  to  write  it  with  a  reverent  capital  letter  —  is  unpro 
fessional  enough  to  tell  me  that  he  regards  it  as  the  very 
best  piece  of  English  composition  that  he  ever  saw,  and  he 
means  to  make  the  world  know  it.  Now  let  the  great  En 
glish  classics  hide  their  diminished  heads  and  pale  their 
ineffectual  fires! 

So  you  begin  to  suspect  that  books  do  not  give  you  the 
truth  of  life  and  character.  Well,  that  suspicion  is  the  be 
ginning  of  wisdom,  and,  so  far  as  it  goes,  a  preliminary 
qualification  for  writing  —  books.  Men  and  women  are 
certainly  not  what  books  represent  them  to  be,  nor  what 
they  represent— and  sometimes  believe  — themselves  to  be. 
They  are  better,  they  are  worse,  and  far  more  interesting. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce  13 

With  best  regards  to  all  your  people,  and  in  the  hope  that 
we  may  frequently  hear  from  you,  I  am  very  sincerely  your 
friend,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

Both  the  children  send  their  love  to  you.  And  they  mean 

just  that. 

J  £«»  ^  r-o. 

MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 
I  send  you  by  this  mail  the  current  New  England  Mam-  St.  Helena, 

11  T    i  -1  11  i       11    October  6, 

zine  —  merely  because  1  have  it  by  me  and  have  read  all  I892. 
of  it  that  I  shall  have  leisure  to  read.  Maybe  it  will  enter 
tain  you  for  an  idle  hour. 

I  have  so  far  recovered  my  health  that  I  hope  to  do  a 
little  pot-boiling  to-morrow.  (Is  that  properly  written  with 
a  hyphen?  —  for  the  life  o'  me  I  can't  say,  just  at  this 
moment.  There  is  a  story  of  an  old  actor  who  having 
played  one  part  half  his  life  had  to  cut  out  the  name  of  the 
person  he  represented  wherever  it  occurred  in  his  lines:  he 
could  never  remember  which  syllable  to  accent.)  My  ill 
ness  was  only  asthma,  which,  unluckily,  does  not  kill  me 
and  so  should  not  alarm  my  friends. 

Dr.Danziger  writes  that  he  has  ordered  your  father's  sketch 
sent  me.  And  I've  ordered  a  large  number  of  extra  impres 
sions  of  it  —  if  it  is  still  on  the  stone.  So  you  see  I  like  it. 

Let  me  hear  from  you  and  about  you. 

Sincerely  your  friend, 
I  enclose  Bib.  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


DEAR  MR.  PARTINGTON, 

I've  been  too  ill  all  the  week  to  write  you  of  your  manu-  St.  Helena, 
scripts,  or  even  read  them  understandingly.  er  7> 

I  think  "Honest  Andrew's  Prayer"  far  and  away  the 
best.  //  is  witty  —  the  others  hardly  more  than  earnest, 
and  not,  in  my  judgment,  altogether  fair.  But  then  you 


1  4  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

know  you  and  I  would  hardly  be  likely  to  agree  on  a  point 
of  that  kind,  —  I  refuse  my  sympathies  in  some  directions 
where  I  extend  my  sympathy  —  if  that  is  intelligible.  You, 
I  think,  have  broader  sympathies  than  mine  —  are  not  only 
sorry  for  the  Homestead  strikers  (for  example)  but  ap 
prove  them.  I  do  not.  But  we  are  one  in  detesting  their 
oppressor,  the  smug-wump,  Carnegie. 

If  you  had  not  sent  "Honest  Andrew's  Prayer"  else 
where  I  should  try  to  place  it  here.  It  is  so  good  that  I  hope 
to  see  it  in  print.  If  it  is  rejected  please  let  me  have  it  again 
if  the  incident  is  not  then  ancient  history. 

I'm  glad  you  like  some  things  in  my  book.  But  you  should 
not  condemn  me  for  debasing  my  poetry  with  abuse;  you 
should  commend  me  for  elevating  my  abuse  with  a  little 
poetry,  here  and  there.  I  am  not  a  poet,  but  an  abuser  — 
that  makes  all  the  difference.  It  is  "how  you  look  at  it." 

But  I'm  still  too  ill  to  write.  With  best  regards  to  all  your 
family,  I  am  sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

I've  been  reading  your  pamphlet  on  Art  Education.  You 
write  best  when  you  write  most  seriously  —  and  your  best 
is  very  good. 


St.  Helena,    DEAR  BLANCHE, 

1892!  I  send  you  this  picture  in  exchange  for  the  one  that  you 
have  —  I'm  "redeeming"  all  those  with  these.  But  I  asked 
you  to  return  that  a  long  time  ago.  Please  say  if  you  like 
this;  to  me  it  looks  like  a  dude.  But  I  hate  the  other  —  the 
style  of  it. 

It  is  very  good  of  your  father  to  take  so  much  trouble  as 
to  go  over  and  work  on  that  stone.  I  want  the  pictures  — 
lithographs  —  only  for  economy:  so  that  when  persons  for 
whom  I  do  not  particularly  care  want  pictures  of  me  I 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce  \  5 

need  not  bankrupt  myself  in  orders  to  the  photographer. 
And  I  do  not  like  photographs  anyhow.  How  long,  O  Lord, 
how  long  am  I  to  wait  for  that  sketch  oiyou? 

My  dear  girl,  I  do  not  see  that  folk  like  your  father  and 
me  have  any  just  cause  of  complaint  against  an  unappre- 
ciative  world;  nobody  compels  us  to  make  things  that  the 
world  does  not  want.  We  merely  choose  to  because  the 
pay,  plus  the  satisfaction,  exceeds  the  pay  alone  that  we 
get  from  work  that  the  world  does  want.  Then  where  is  our 
grievance?  We  get  what  we  prefer  when  we  do  good  work; 
for  the  lesser  wage  we  do  easier  work.  It  has  never  seemed 
to  me  that  the  "unappreciated  genius"  had  a  good  case  to 
go  into  court  with,  and  I  think  he  should  be  promptly  non 
suited.  Inspiration  from  Heaven  is  all  very  fine  —  the 
mandate  of  an  attitude  or  an  instinct  is  good;  but  when  A 
works  for  B,  yet  insists  on  taking  his  orders  from  C,  what 
can  he  expect?  So  don't  distress  your  good  little  heart  with 
compassion  —  not  for  me,  at  least;  whenever  I  tire  of  pot- 
boiling,  wood-chopping  is  open  to  me,  and  a  thousand  other 
honest  and  profitable  employments. 

I  have  noted  Gertrude's  picture  in  the  Examiner  with  a 
peculiar  interest.  That  girl  has  a  bushel  of  brains,  and  her 
father  and  brother  have  to  look  out  for  her  or  she  will  leave 
them  out  of  sight.  I  would  suggest  as  a  measure  of  precau 
tion  against  so  monstrous  a  perversion  of  natural  order  that 
she  have  her  eyes  put  out.  The  subjection  of  women  must 
be  maintained. 


*  *  * 


Bib  and  Leigh  send  love  to  you.  Leigh,  I  think,  is  expect 
ing  Carlt.  I've  permitted  Leigh  to  join  the  band  again,  and 
he  is  very  peacocky  in  his  uniform.  God  bless  you. 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


1  6  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

St.  Helena,    MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

November  6, 

1892.  1  am  glad  you  will  consent  to  tolerate  the  new  photo 
graph—all  my  other  friends  are  desperately  delighted  with 
it.  I  prefer  your  tolerance. 

But  I  don't  like  to  hear  that  you  have  been  "ill  and 
blue";  that  is  a  condition  which  seems  more  naturally  to 
appertain  to  me.  For,  after  all,  whatever  cause  you  may 
have  for  "blueness,"  you  can  always  recollect  that  you  are 
you,  and  find  a  wholesome  satisfaction  in  your  identity; 
whereas  I,  alas,  am  // 

I'm  sure  you  performed  your  part  of  that  concert  credit 
ably  despite  the  ailing  wrist,  and  wish  that  I  might  have 
added  myself  to  your  triumph. 

I  have  been  very  ill  again  but  hope  to  get  away  from  here 
(back  to  my  mountain)  before  it  is  time  for  another  attack 
from  my  friend  the  enemy.  I  shall  expect  to  see  you  there 
sometime  when  my  brother  and  his  wife  come  up.  They 
would  hardly  dare  to  come  without  you. 

No,  I  did  not  read  the  criticism  you  mention  —  in  the 
Saturday  Review.  Shall  send  you  all  the  Saturdays  that  I 
get  if  you  will  have  them.  Anyhow,  they  will  amuse  (and 
sometimes  disgust)  your  father. 

I  have  awful  arrears  of  correspondence,  as  usual. 

The  children  send  love.  They  had  a  pleasant  visit  with 
Carlt,  and  we  hope  he  will  come  again. 

May  God  be  very  good  to  you  and  put  it  into  your  heart 
to  write  to  your  uncle  often. 

Please  give  my  best  respects  to  all  Partingtons,  jointly 
and  severally.  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Angwin,    DEAR  BLANCHE, 

November  29,  9 

1892.     Only  just  a  word  to  say  that  1  have  repented  or  my  assent 


'The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce  1 7 

to  your  well-meant  proposal  for  your  father  to  write  of  me. 
If  there  is  anything  in  my  work  in  letters  that  engages  his 
interest,  or  in  my  literary  history  —  that  is  well  enough,  and 
I  shall  not  mind.  But  "biography"  in  the  other  sense  is 
distasteful  to  me.  I  never  read  biographical  "stuff"  of 
other  writers  —  of  course  you  know  "stuff"  is  literary 
slang  for  "matter"  —  and  think  it  "beside  the  question." 
Moreover,  it  is  distinctly  mischievous  to  letters.  It  throws 
no  light  on  one's  work,  but  on  the  contrary  "darkens 
counsel."  The  only  reason  that  posterity  judges  work  with 
some  slight  approach  to  accuracy  is  that  posterity  knows 
less,  and  cares  less,  about  the  author's  personality.  It  con 
siders  his  work  as  impartially  as  if  it  had  found  it  lying 
on  the  ground  with  no  footprints  about  it  and  no  initials 
on  its  linen. 

My  brother  is  not  "fully  cognizant"  of  my  history,  any 
how  —  not  of  the  part  that  is  interesting. 

So,  on  the  whole,  I'll  ask  that  it  be  not  done.  It  was  only 
my  wish  to  please  that  made  me  consent.  That  wish  is  no 
weaker  now,  but  I  would  rather  please  otherwise. 

I  trust  that  you  arrived  safe  and  well,  and  that  your 
memory  of  those  few  stormy  days  is  not  altogether  dis 
agreeable.  Sincerely  your  friend,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

*•»*»*•» 
MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

Returning  here  from  the  city  this  morning,  I  find  your  Angwin, 
letter.  And  I  had  not  replied  to  your  last  one  before  that! 
But  that  was  because  I  hoped  to  see  you  at  your  home.  I 
was  unable  to  do  so  —  I  saw  no  one  (but  Richard)  whom  I 
really  wanted  to  see,  and  had  not  an  hour  unoccupied  by 
work  or  "business"  until  this  morning.  And  then  —  it  was 
Christmas,  and  my  right  to  act  as  skeleton  at  anybody's 


1 8  *fhe  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

feast  by  even  so  much  as  a  brief  call  was  not  clear.  I  hope 
my  brother  will  be  as  forgiving  as  I  know  you  will  be. 

When  I  went  down  I  was  just  recovering  from  as  severe 
an  attack  of  illness  as  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  Please  con 
sider  unsaid  all  that  I  have  said  in  praise  of  this  mountain, 
its  air,  water,  and  everything  that  is  its. 

*  *  * 

It  was  uncommonly  nice  of  Hume  to  entertain  so  good  an 
opinion  of  me;  if  you  had  seen  him  a  few  days  later  you 
would  have  found  a  different  state  of  affairs,  probably;  for 
I  had  been  exhausting  relays  of  vials  of  wrath  upon  him 
for  delinquent  diligence  in  securing  copyright  for  my  little 
story  —  whereby  it  is  uncopyrighted.  I  ought  to  add  that 
he  has  tried  to  make  reparation,  and  is  apparently  contrite 
to  the  limit  of  his  penitential  capacity. 

No,  there  was  no  other  foundation  for  the  little  story 
than  its  obvious  naturalness  and  consistency  with  the 
sentiments  "appropriate  to  the  season."  When  Christen 
dom  is  guzzling  and  gorging  and  clowning  it  has  not  time 
to  cease  being  cruel;  all  it  can  do  is  to  augment  its  hypoc 
risy  a  trifle. 

Please  don't  lash  yourself  and  do  various  penances  any 
more  for  your  part  in  the  plaguing  of  poor  Russell;  he  is 
quite  forgotten  in  the  superior  affliction  sent  upon  James 
Whitcomb  Riley.  That  seems  a  matter  of  genuine  public 
concern,  if  I  may  judge  by  what  I  heard  in  town  (and  I 
heard  little  else)  and  by  my  letters  and  "esteemed" 
(though  testy)  "contemporaries."  Dear,  dear,  how  sensi 
tive  people  are  becoming! 

Richard  has  promised  me  the  Blanchescape  that  I  have 
so  patiently  waited  for  while  you  were  practicing  the  art  of 
looking  pretty  in  preparation  for  the  sitting,  so  now  I  am 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce  19 

happy.  I  shall  put  you  opposite  Joaquin  Miller,  who  is 
now  framed  and  glazed  in  good  shape.  I  have  also  your 
father's  sketch  of  me  —  that  is,  I  got  it  and  left  it  in  San 
Francisco  to  be  cleaned  if  possible;  it  was  in  a  most  unre- 
generate  state  of  dirt  and  grease. 

Seeing  Harry  Bigelow's  article  in  the  Wave  on  women 
who  write  (and  it's  unpleasantly  near  to  the  truth  of  the 
matter)  I  feel  almost  reconciled  to  the  failure  of  my  gor 
geous  dream  of  making  a  writer  of  you.  I  wonder  if  you 
would  have  eschewed  the  harmless,  necessary  tub  and 
danced  upon  the  broken  bones  of  the  innocuous  tooth 
brush.  Fancy  you  with  sable  nails  and  a  soiled  cheek, 
uttering  to  the  day  what  God  taught  in  the  night!  Let  us 
be  thankful  that  the  peril  is  past. 

The  next  time  I  go  to  "the  Bay"  I  shall  go  to  1019  first. 

God  bless  you  for  a  good  girl.  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


[First  part  of  this  letter  missing.] 


*  *  * 


Yes,  I  know  Blackburn  Harte  has  a  weakness  for  the  pro 
letariat  of  letters  *  *  *  and  doubtless  thinks  Riley  good 
because  he  is  "of  the  people,"  peoply.  But  he  will  have  to 
endure  me  as  well  as  he  can.  You  ask  my  opinion  of  Burns. 
He  has  not,  I  think,  been  translated  into  English,  and  I  do 
not  (that  is,  I  can  but  will  not)  read  that  gibberish.  I  read 
Burns  once  —  that  was  once  too  many  times;  but  happily 
it  was  before  I  knew  any  better,  and  so  my  time,  being 
worthless,  was  not  wasted. 

I  wish  you  could  be  up  here  this  beautiful  weather.  But 
I  dare  say  it  would  rain  if  you  came.  In  truth,  it  is  "  thick 
ening"  a  trifle  just  because  of  my  wish.  And  I  wish  I  bad 


20          'The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

given  you,  for  your  father,  all  the  facts  of  my  biography 
from  the  cradle  —  downward.  When  you  come  again  I 
shall,  if  you  still  want  them.  For  I'm  worried  half  to  death 
with  requests  for  them,  and  when  I  refuse  am  no  doubt 
considered  surly  or  worse.  And  my  refusal  no  longer  serves, 
for  the  biography  men  are  beginning  to  write  my  history 
from  imagination.  So  the  next  time  I  see  you  I  shall  give 
you  (orally)  that  "history  of  a  crime,"  my  life.  Then,  if 
your  father  is  still  in  the  notion,  he  can  write  it  from  your 
notes,  and  I  can  answer  all  future  inquiries  by  enclosing 
his  article. 

Do  you  know?  — you  will,  I  think,  be  glad  to  know  — 
that  I  have  many  more  offers  for  stories  at  good  prices, 
than  I  have  the  health  to  accept.  (For  I  am  less  nearly  well 
than  I  have  told  you.)  Even  the  Examiner  has  "waked 
up"  (I  woke  it  up)  to  the  situation,  and  now  pays  me  $20  a 
thousand  words;  and  my  latest  offer  from  New  York  is  $50. 

I  hardly  know  why  I  tell  you  this  unless  it  is  because  you 
tell  me  of  any  good  fortune  that  comes  to  your  people,  and 
because  you  seem  to  take  an  interest  in  my  affairs  such  as 
nobody  else  does  in  just  the  same  unobjectionable  and,  in 
fact,  agreeable  way.  I  wish  you  were  my  "real,  sure- 
enough"  niece.  But  in  that  case  I  should  expect  you  to  pass 
all  your  time  at  Howell  Mountain,  with  your  uncle  and 
cousin.  Then  I  should  teach  you  to  write,  and  you  could 
expound  to  me  the  principles  underlying  the  art  of  being 
the  best  girl  in  the  world.  Sincerely  yours, 

£•»  3+  sx*        AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

Angwin,    My  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

^iTgj!  Not  hearing  from  [you]  after  writing  you  last  week,  I  fear 
you  are  ill— may  I  not  know?  I  am  myself  ill,  as  I  feared. On 
Thursday  last  I  was  taken  violently  ill  indeed,  and  have  but 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          21 

just  got  about.  In  truth,  I'm  hardly  able  to  write  you,  but 
as  I  have  to  go  to  work  on  Friday,  sure,  I  may  as  well  prac 
tice  a  little  on  you.  And  the  weather  up  here  is  Paradisai-  \ 
cal.  Leigh  and  I  took  a  walk  this  morning  in  the  woods.  \ 
We  scared  up  a  wild  deer,  but  I  did  not  feel  able  to  run  it 
down  and  present  you  with  its  antlers. 

I  hope  you  are  well,  that  you  are  all  well.  And  I  hope 
Heaven  will  put  it  into  your  good  brother's  heart  to  send 
me  that  picture  of  the  sister  who  is  so  much  too  good  for 
him  —  or  anybody. 

In  the  meantime,  and  always,  God  bless  you. 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

My  boy  (who  has  been  an  angel  of  goodness  to  me  in  my 
illness)  sends  his  love  to  you  and  all  your  people. 

»»«•»*•» 
MY  DEAR  PARTINGTON, 

You  see  the  matter  is  this  way.  You  can't  come  up  here  Angwin,Cai., 
and  go  back  the  same  day  —  at  least  that  would  give  you  is^"7  *' 
but  about  an  hour  here.  You  must  remain  over  night.  Now 
I  put  it  to  you  —  how  do  you  think  I'd  feel  if  you  came  and 
remained  over  night  and  I,  having  work  to  do,  should  have 
to  leave  you  to  your  own  devices,  mooning  about  a  place 
that  has  nobody  to  talk  to?  When  a  fellow  comes  a  long 
way  to  see  me  I  want  to  see  a  good  deal  of  him,  however  be 
may  feel  about  it.  It  is  not  the  same  as  if  he  lived  in  the 
same  bailiwick  and  "dropped  in."  That  is  why,  in  the  pres 
ent  state  of  my  health  and  work,  I  ask  all  my  friends  to 
give  me  as  long  notice  of  their  comingas  possible.  I'm  sure 
you'll  say  I  am  right,  inasmuch  as  certain  work  if  under 
taken  must  be  done  by  the  time  agreed  upon. 

My  relations  with  Danziger  are  peculiar  —  as  any  one's 
relations  with  him  must  be.  In  the  matter  of  which  you 


22  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

wished  to  speak  I  could  say  nothing.  For  this  I  must  ask 
you  to  believe  there  are  reasons.  It  would  not  have  been 
fair  not  to  let  you  know,  before  coming,  that  I  would  not 
talk  of  him. 

I  thought,  though,  that  you  would  probably  come  up  to 
day  if  I  wrote  you.  Well,  I  should  like  you  to  come  and  pass 
a  week  with  me.  But  if  you  come  for  a  day  I  naturally  want 
it  to  be  an  "off"  day  with  me.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

£^£^  £«* 
Angwin,    MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

1893!  I  should  have  written  you  sooner;  it  has  been  ten  whole 
days  since  the  date  of  your  last  letter.  But  I  have  not  been 
in  the  mood  of  letter  writing,  and  am  prepared  for  mal 
edictions  from  all  my  neglected  friends  but  you.  My 
health  is  better.  Yesterday  I  returned  from  Napa,  where  I 
passed  twenty-six  hours,  buried,  most  of  the  time,  in  fog; 
but  apparently  it  has  not  harmed  me.  The  weather  here 
remains  heavenly.  *  *  * 

If  I  grow  better  in  health  I  shall  in  time  feel  able  to  ex 
tend  my  next  foray  into  the  Lowlands  as  far  as  Oakland 
and  Berkeley. 

Here  are  some  fronds  of  maiden-hair  fern  that  I  have  just 
brought  in.  The  first  wild  flowers  of  the  season  are  begin 
ning  to  venture  out  and  the  manzanitas  are  a  sight  to  see. 

With  warmest  regards  to  all  your  people,  I  am,  as  ever, 
your  most  unworthy  uncle,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Angwin,    MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

1893!  What  an  admirable  reporter  you  would  be!  Your  account 
of  the  meeting  with  Miller  in  the  restaurant  and  of  the 
"entertainment"  are  amusing  no  end.  *  *  *  By  the  way, 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          23 

I  observe  a  trooly  offle  "attack"  on  me  in  the  Oakland 
'Times  of  the  3rd  (I  think)  *  *  *  (I  know  of  course  it 
means  me  —  I  always  know  that  when  they  pull  out  of 
their  glowing  minds  that  old  roasted  chestnut  about 
"tearing  down"  but  not  "building  up  "  —  that  is  to  say, 
effacing  one  imposture  without  giving  them  another  in 
place  of  it.)  The  amusing  part  of  the  business  is  that  he 
points  a  contrast  between  me  and  Realf  (God  knows 
there's  unlikeness  enough)  quite  unconscious  of  the  fact 
that  it  is  I  and  no  other  who  have  "built  up"  Realf s  repu 
tation  as  a  poet  —  published  his  work,  and  paid  him  for  it, 
when  nobody  else  would  have  it;  repeatedly  pointed  out  its 
greatness,  and  when  he  left  that  magnificent  crown  of  son 
nets  behind  him  protested  that  posterity  would  know  Cali 
fornia  better  by  the  incident  of  his  death  than  otherwise  — 
not  a  soul,  until  now,  concurring  in  my  view  of  the  verses. 
Believe  me,  my  trade  is  not  without  its  humorous  side. 

Leigh  and  I  went  down  to  the  waterfall  yesterday.  It  was 
almost  grand  —  greater  than  I  had  ever  seen  it  —  and  I 
took  the  liberty  to  wish  that  you  might  see  it  in  that  state. 
My  wish  must  have  communicated  itself,  somehow,  though 
imperfectly,  to  Leigh,  for  as  I  was  indulging  it  he  expressed 
the  same  wish  with  regard  to  Richard. 

I  wish  too  that  you  might  be  here  to-day  to  see  the  swirls 
of  snow.  It  is  falling  rapidly,  and  I'm  thinking  that  this 
letter  will  make  its  way  down  the  mountain  to-morrow 
morning  through  a  foot  or  two  of  it.  Unluckily,  it  has  a 
nasty  way  of  turning  to  rain. 

My  health  is  very  good  now,  and  Leigh  and  I  take  long 
walks.  And  after  the  rains  we  look  for  Indian  arrow-heads 
in  the  plowed  fields  and  on  the  gravel  bars  of  the  creek.  My 
collection  is  now  great;  but  I  fear  I  shall  tire  of  the  fad 


24          *£ht  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

before  completing  it.  One  in  the  country  must  have  a  fad 
or  die  of  dejection  and  oxidation  of  the  faculties. How  happy 
is  he  who  can  make  a  fad  of  his  work! 

By  the  way,  my  New  York  publishers  (The  United  States 
Book  Company)  have  failed,  owing  me  a  pot  of  money,  of 
which  I  shall  probably  get  nothing.  I'm  beginning  to  cherish 
an  impertinent  curiosity  to  know  what  Heaven  means  to  do 
to  me  next.  If  your  function  as  one  of  the  angels  gives  you 
a  knowledge  of  such  matters  please  betray  your  trust  and 
tell  me  where  I'm  to  be  hit,  and  how  hard. 

But  this  is  an  intolerable  deal  of  letter. 

With  best  regards  to  all  good  Partingtons  —  and  I  think 
there  are  no  others  —  I  remain  your  affectionate  uncle  by 
adoption,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

Leigh  has  brought  in  some  manzanita  blooms  which  I 
shall  try  to  enclose.  But  they'll  be  badly  smashed. 

*•»«•»«•» 

Angwb,  MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

Trtjj!  I  thank  you  many  times  for  the  picture,  which  is  a  mon 
strous  good  picture,  whatever  its  shortcomings  as  a  por 
trait  may  be.  On  the  authority  of  the  great  art  critic,Leigh 
Bierce,  I  am  emboldened  to  pronounce  some  of  the  work 
in  it  equal  to  Gribayedoff  at  his  best;  and  that,  according 
to  the  g.  a.  c.  aforesaid,  is  to  exhaust  eulogium.  But  —  it 
isn't  altogether  the  Blanche  that  I  know,  as  I  know  her. 
Maybe  it  is  the  hat  —  I  should  prefer  you  hatless,  and  so 
less  at  the  mercy  of  capricious  fortune.  Suppose  hats  were 
to  "go  out"  —  I  tremble  to  think  of  what  would  happen  to 
that  gorgeous  superstructure  which  now  looks  so  beauti 
ful.  O,  well,  when  I  come  down  I  shall  drag  you  to  the  hate 
ful  photographer  and  get  something  that  looks  quite  like 
you  —  and  has  no  other  value. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          25 

And  I  mean  to  "see  Oakland  and  die"  pretty  soon.  I  have 
not  dared  go  when  the  weather  was  bad.  It  promises  well 
now,  but  I  am  to  have  visitors  next  Sunday,  so  must  stay 
at  home.  God  and  the  weather  bureau  willing,  you  may  be 
bothered  with  me  the  Saturday  or  Sunday  after.  We  shall  see. 

I  hope  your  father  concurs  in  my  remarks  on  picture 
"borders"  —  I  did  not  think  of  him  until  the  remarks  had 
been  written,  or  I  should  have  assured  myself  of  his  prac 
tice  before  venturing  to  utter  my  mind  o'  the  matter.  If  it 
were  not  for  him  and  Gertrude  and  the  Wave  I  should 
snarl  again,  anent  "  half-tones,  "which  I  abhor.  Hume  tried 
to  get  me  to  admire  his  illustrations,  but  I  would  not,  so  far 
as  the  process  is  concerned,  and  bluntly  told  him  he  would 
not  get  your  father's  best  work  that  way. 

If  you  were  to  visit  the  Mountain  now  I  should  be  able 
to  show  you  a  redwood  forest  (newly  discovered)  and  a 
picturesque  gulch  to  match. 

The  wild  flowers  are  beginning  to  put  up  their  heads  to 
look  for  you,  and  my  collection  of  Indian  antiquities  is 
yearning  to  have  you  see  it. 

Please  convey  my  thanks  to  Richard  for  the  picture  — 
the  girlscape  —  and  my  best  regards  to  your  father  and  all 
the  others.  Sincerely  your  friend, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

I'm  very  sorry  indeed  that  I  cannot  be  in  Oakland  Thurs- 
day  evening  to  see  you  "in  your  glory,"  arrayed,  doubt- 
less,  like  a  lily  of  the  field.  However  glorious  you  may  be  in 
public,  though,  I  fancy  I  should  like  you  better  as  you  used 
to  be  out  at  camp. 

Well,  I  mean  to  see  you  on  Saturday  afternoon  if  you  are 


26  'The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

at  home,  and  think  I  shall  ask  you  to  be  my  guide  to 
Grizzly  ville;  for  surely  I  shall  never  be  able  to  find  the 
wonderful  new  house  alone.  So  if  your  mamma  will  let  you 
go  out  there  with  me  I  promise  to  return  you  to  her  in 
stead  of  running  away  with  you.  And,  possibly,  weather 
permitting,  we  can  arrange  for  a  Sunday  in  the  redwoods 
or  on  the  hills.  Or  don't  your  folks  go  out  any  more  o* 
Sundays  ? 

Please  give  my  thanks  to  your  mother  for  the  kind  invi 
tation  to  put  up  at  your  house;  but  I  fear  that  would  be 
impossible.  I  shall  have  to  be  where  people  can  call  on  me  — 
and  such  a  disreputable  crowd  as  my  friends  are  would  ruin 
the  Partingtonian  reputation  for  respectability.  In  your  new 
neighborhood  you  will  all  be  very  proper  —  which  you  could 
hardly  be  with  a  procession  of  pirates  and  vagrants  pulling 
at  your  door-bell. 

So  —  if  God  is  good  —  I  shall  call  on  you  Saturday  after 
noon.  In  the  meantime  and  always  be  thou  happy  —  thou 
and  thine.  Your  unworthy  uncle,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Angwin,    MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

^93!  It  is  good  to  have  your  letters  again.  If  you  will  not  let 
me  teach  you  my  trade  of  writing  stories  it  is  right  that  you 
practice  your  own  of  writing  letters.  You  are  mistress  of 
that.  Byron's  letters  to  Moore  are  dull  in  comparison  with 
yours  to  me.  Some  allowance,  doubtless,  must  be  made  for 
my  greater  need  of  your  letters  than  of  Byron's.  For,  truth 
to  tell,  I've  been  a  trifle  dispirited  and  noncontent.  In  that 
mood  I  peremptorily  resigned  from  the  Examiner,  for  one 
thing  —  and  permitted  myself  to  be  coaxed  back  by  Hearst, 
for  another.  My  other  follies  I  shall  not  tell  you.  *  *  * 
We  had  six  inches  of  snow  up  here  and  it  has  rained 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          27 

steadily  ever  since  —  more  than  a  week.  And  the  fog  is  of 
superior  opacity  —  quite  peerless  that  way.  It  is  still  rain 
ing  and  fogging.  Do  you  wonder  that  your  unworthy  uncle 
has  come  perilously  and  alarmingly  near  to  loneliness  ?  Yet 
I  have  the  companionship,  at  meals,  of  one  of  your  excel 
lent  sex,  from  San  Francisco.  *  *  * 

Truly,  I  should  like  to  attend  one  of  your  at-homes,  but  I  j 
fear  it  must  be  a  long  time  before  I  venture  down  there 
again.  But  when  this  brumous  visitation  is  past  I  can  look 
down,  and  that  assists  the  imagination  to  picture  you  all  in 
your  happy  (I  hope)  home.  But  if  that  woolly  wolf,  Joaquin 
Miller,  doesn't  keep  outside  the  fold  I  shall  come  down  and 
club  him  soundly.  I  quite  agree  with  your  mother  that  his 
flattery  will  spoil  you.  You  said  I  would  spoil  Phyllis,  and 
now,  you  bad  girl,  you  wish  to  be  spoiled  yourself. Well,  you 
can't  eat  fourMillerine  oranges.— My  love  to  all  your  family. 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

«*«*>£•» 

MY  DEAR  PARTINGTON, 

I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  get  the  good  account  of  Leigh  Angwin> 
that  you  give  me.  I've  feared  that  he  might  be  rather  a  bore  1893. 
to  you,  but  you  make  me  easy  on  that  score.  Also  I  am 
pleased  that  you  think  he  has  a  sufficient  "gift"  to  do 
something  in  the  only  direction  in  which  he  seems  to  care 
to  go. 

He  is  anxious  to  take  the  place  at  the  Examiner,  and  his 
uncle  thinks  that  would  be  best  —  if  they  will  give  it  him. 
I'm  a  little  reluctant  for  many  reasons,  but  there  are  con 
siderations  —  some  of  them  going  to  the  matter  of  charac 
ter  and  disposition  —  which  point  to  that  as  the  best  ar 
rangement.  The  boy  needs  discipline,  control,  and  work. 
He  needs  to  learn  by  experience  that  life  is  not  all  beer  and 


28  "The  Letters  of  ^Ambrose  Bierce 

skittles.  Of  course  you  can't  quite  know  him  as  I  do.  As  to 
his  earning  anything  on  the  Examiner  or  elsewhere,  that  cuts 
no  figure  —he'll  spend  everything  he  can  get  his  ringers  on 
anyhow;  but  I  feel  that  he  ought  to  have  the  advantage 
of  a  struggle  for  existence  where  the  grass  is  short  and  the 
soil  stony. 

Well,  I  shall  let  him  live  down  there  somehow,  and  see 
what  can  be  done  with  him.  There's  a  lot  of  good  in  him, 
and  a  lot  of  the  other  thing,  naturally. 

I  hope  Hume  has,  or  will,  put  you  in  authority  in  the 
Post  and  give  you  a  decent  salary.  He  seems  quite  enthu 
siastic  about  the  Post  and  —  about  you. 

With  sincere  regards  to  Mrs.  Partington  and  all  the  Part- 
ingtonettes,  I  am  very  truly  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

«*«•»*•» 

Angwin,    MY  DEAR  PARTINGTON, 

18513.  ^  y°u  are  undertaking  to  teach  my  kid  (which,  unless 
it  is  entirely  agreeable  to  you,  you  must  not  do)  I  hope  you 
will  regard  him  as  a  pupil  whose  tuition  is  to  be  paid  for  like 
any  other  pupil.  And  you  should,  I  think,  name  the  price. 
Will  you  kindly  do  so  ? 

Another  thing.  Leigh  tells  me  you  paid  him  for  something 
he  did  for  the  Wave.  That  is  not  right.  While  you  let  him 
work  with  you,  and  under  you,  his  work  belongs  to  you  — 
is  a  part  of  yours.  I  mean  the  work  that  he  does  in  your 
shop  for  the  Wave. 

I  don't  wish  to  feel  that  you  are  bothering  with  him  for 
nothing— will  you  not  tell  me  your  notion  of  what  I  should 
pay  you  ? 

I  fancy  you'll  be  on  the  Examiner  pretty  soon— if  you  wish. 

With  best  regards  to  your  family  I  am  sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          29 

MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

As  I  was  writing  to  your  father  I  was,  of  course,  strongly  Angwin, 
impressed  with  a  sense  of  you;  for  you  are  an  intrusive  kind 
of  creature,  coming  into  one's  consciousness  in  the  most 
lawless  way  —  Phyllis-like.  (Phyllis  is  my  "  type  and  ex 
ample"  of  lawlessness,  albeit  I'm  devoted  to  her— a  Phyl- 
listine,  as  it  were.) 

Leigh  sends  me  a  notice  (before  the  event)  of  your  con 
cert.  I  hope  it  was  successful.  Was  it? 

It  rains  or  snows  here  all  the  time,  and  the  mountain 
struggles  in  vain  to  put  on  its  bravery  of  leaf  and  flower. 
When  this  kind  of  thing  stops  I'm  going  to  put  in  an  appli 
cation  for  you  to  come  up  and  get  your  bad  impressions  of 
the  place  effaced.  It  is  insupportable  that  my  earthly  para 
dise  exist  in  your  memory  as  a  "  bad  eminence,"  like  Satan's 
primacy. 

I'm  sending  you  the  New  England  Magazine  —  perhaps  I 
have  sent  it  already  —  and  a  Harper's  Weekly  with  a  story 
by  Mrs.  *  *  *  ,  who  is  a  sort  of  pupil  of  mine.  She  used  to 
do  bad  work  —  does  now  sometimes ;  but  she  will  do  great 
work  by-and-by. 

I  wish  you  had  not  got  that  notion  that  you  cannot  learn 
to  write.  You  see  I'd  like  you  to  do  some  art  work  that  I 
can  understand  and  enjoy.  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  no  note 
or  combination  of  notes  can  be  struck  out  of  a  piano  that 
will  touch  me  —  give  me  an  emotion  of  any  kind.  It  is  not 
wholly  due  to  my  ignorance  and  bad  ear,  for  other  instru 
ments—the  violin,  organ,  zither,  guitar,  etc.,  sometimes  af 
fect  me  profoundly.  Come,  read  me  the  riddle  if  you  know. 
What  have  I  done  that  I  should  be  inaccessible  to  your 
music?  I  know  it  is  good;  I  can  hear  that  it  is,  but  not  feel 
that  it  is.  Therefore  to  me  it  is  not. 


30  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

Now  that,  you  will  confess,  is  a  woeful  state  — "most 
tolerable  and  not  to  be  endured."  Will  you  not  cultivate 
some  art  within  the  scope  of  my  capacity?  Do  you  think 
you  could  learn  to  walk  on  a  wire  (if  it  lay  on  the  ground)  ? 
Can  you  not  ride  three  horses  at  once  if  they  are  suitably 
dead?  Or  swallow  swords?  Really,  you  should  have  some 
way  to  entertain  your  uncle. 

True,  you  can  talk,  but  you  never  get  the  chance;  I  al 
ways  "have  the  floor."  Clearly  you  must  learn  to  write, 
and  I  mean  to  get  Miller  to  teach  you  how  to  be  a  poet. 

I  hope  you  will  write  occasionally  to  me,  —  letter-writing 
is  an  art  that  you  do  excel  in  —  as  I  in  "appreciation"  of 
your  excellence  in  it. 

Do  you  see  my  boy?  I  hope  he  is  good,  and  diligent  in  his 
work.  *  *  * 

You  must  write  to  me  or  I  shall  withdraw  my  avuncular 
relation  to  you. 

With  good  will  to  all  your  people  —  particularly  Phyllis  — 
I  am  sincerely  your  friend,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

*•»«•»«* 

Angwin,  Calif.,    MY  DEAR  PARTINGTON, 

1893!  I  think  you  wrong.  On  your  own  principle,  laid  down  in 
your  letter,  that  "every  man  has  a  right  to  the  full  value 
of  his  labor"  —  pardon  me,  good  Englishman,  I  meant 
"laboUr"  —  you  have  a  right  to  your  wage  for  the  labour 
of  teaching  Leigh.  And  what  work  would  be  get  to  do  but 
for  you  ? 

I  can't  hold  you  and  inject  shekels  into  your  pocket,  but 
if  the  voice  of  remonstrance  has  authority  to  enter  at  your 
ear  without  a  ticket  I  pray  you  to  show  it  hospitality. 

Leigh  doubtless  likes  to  see  his  work  in  print,  but  I  hope 
you  will  not  let  him  put  anything  out  until  it  is  as  good  as 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          3 1 

he  can  make  it  —  nor  then  if  it  is  not  good  enough.  And 
that  whether  he  signs  it  or  not.  I  have  talked  to  him  about 
the  relation  of  conscience  to  lab  —  work,  but  I  don't  know 
if  my  talk  all  came  out  at  the  other  ear. 

0  —  that  bad  joke  o'  mine.  Where  do  you  and  Richard 
expect  to  go  when  death  do  you  part?  You  were  neither  of 
you  present  that  night  on  the  dam,  nor  did  I  know  either 
of  you.  Blanche,  thank  God,  retains  the  old-time  reverence 
for  truth:  it  was  to  her  that  I  said  it.  Richard  evidently 
dreamed  it,  and  you  —  youVe  been  believing  that  con 
founded  Wave!  Sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

***•»«•» 
MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

1  take  a  few  moments  from  work  to  write  you  in  order  Angwin> 
(mainly)  to  say  that  your  letter  of  March  jist  did  not  go  1853. 
astray,  as  you  seem  to  fear  —  though  why  you  should  care 

if  it  did  I  can't  conjecture.  The  loss  to  me  —  that  is  prob 
ably  what  would  touch  your  compassionate  heart. 

So  you  will  try  to  write.  That  is  a  good  girl.  I'm  almost 
sure  you  can  —  not,  of  course,  all  at  once,  but  by-and-by. 
And  if  not,  what  matter  ?  You  are  not  of  the  sort,  I  am  sure, 
who  would  go  on  despite  everything,  determined  to  suc 
ceed  by  dint  of  determining  to  succeed. 

*  *  * 

We  are  blessed  with  the  most  amiable  of  all  conceivable 
weathers  up  here,  and  the  wild  flowers  are  putting  up  their 
heads  everywhere  to  look  for  you.  Lying  in  their  graves 
last  autumn,  they  overheard  (underheard)  your  promise  to 
come  in  the  spring,  and  it  has  stimulated  and  cheered  them 
to  a  vigorous  growth. 

I'm  sending  you  some  more  papers.  Don't  think  yourself 
obliged  to  read  all  the  stuff  I  send  you  —  /  don't  read  it. 


32  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

Condole  with  me  —  I  have  just  lost  another  publisher  — - 
by  failure.  Schulte,  of  Chicago,  publisher  of  "The  Monk" 
etc.,  has  "gone  under,"  I  hear.  Danziger  and  I  have  not 
had  a  cent  from  him.  I  put  out  three  books  in  a  year,  and 
lo!  each  one  brings  down  a  publisher's  gray  hair  in  sorrow 
to  the  grave!  for  Langton,  of  "Black  Beetles,"  came  to 
grief—  that  is  how  Danziger  got  involved.  "O  that  mine 
enemy  would  publish  one  of  my  books ! " 

I  am  glad  to  hear  of  your  success  at  your  concert.  If  I 
could  have  reached  you  you  should  have  had  the  biggest 
basket  of  pretty  vegetables  that  was  ever  handed  over  the 
footlights.  I'm  sure  you  merited  it  all  —  what  do  you  not 
merit  ? 

Your  father  gives  me  good  accounts  of  my  boy.  He  must 
be  doing  well,  I  think,  by  the  way  he  neglects  all  my  com 
missions. 

Enclosed  you  will  find  my  contribution  to  the  Partington 
art  gallery,  with  an  autograph  letter  from  the  artist.  You 
can  hang  them  in  any  light  you  please  and  show  them  to 
Richard.  He  will  doubtless  be  pleased  to  note  how  the 
latent  genius  of  his  boss  has  burst  into  bloom. 

I  have  been  wading  in  the  ^reek  this  afternoon  for  pure 
love  of  it;  the  gravel  looked  so  clean  under  the  water.  I 
was  for  the  moment  at  least  ten  years  younger  than  your 
father.  To  whom,  and  to  all  the  rest  of  your  people,  my 
sincere  regards,  Your  uncle,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

*•»*•»«•» 

Angwin,  Gala.,    M¥  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

April  26,  *    *    * 

1893. 

I  accept  your  sympathy  for  my  misfortunes  in  publishing. 
It  serves  me  right  (I  don't  mean  the  sympathy  does)  for 
publishing.  I  should  have  known  that  if  a  publisher  cannot 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          33 

beat  an  author  otherwise,  or  is  too  honest  to  do  so,  he  will 
do  it  by  failing.  Once  in  London  a  publisher  gave  me  a 
check  dated  two  days  ahead,  and  then  (the  only  thing  he 
could  do  to  make  the  check  worthless  —ate  a  pork  pie  and 
died.  That  was  the  late  John  Camden  Hotten,  to  whose 
business  and  virtues  my  present  London  publishers,  Chatto 
and  Windus,  have  succeeded.They  have  not  failed,  and  they 
refuse  pork  pie,  but  they  deliberately  altered  the  title  of 
my  book. 

All  this  for  your  encouragement  in  "learning  to  write." 
Writing  books  is  a  noble  profession;  it  has  not  a  shade  of 
selfishness  in  it  —  nothing  worse  than  conceit. 

0  yes,  you  shall  have  your  big  basket  of  flowers  if  ever  I 
catch  you  playing  in  public.  I  wish  I  could  give  you  the 
carnations,  lilies-of-the-valley,  violets,  and  first-of-the-sea- 
son  sweet  peas  now  on  my  table.  They  came  from  down  near 
you  —which  fact  they  are  trying  triumphantly  and  as  hard 
as  they  can  to  relate  in  fragrance. 

1  trust  your  mother  is  well  of  her  cold  —  that  you  are  all 
well  and  happy,  and  that  Phyllis  will  not  forget  me.  And 
may  the  good  Lord  bless  you  regularly  every  hour  of  every 
day  for  your  merit,  and  every  minute  of  every  hour  as  a 
special  and  particular  favor  to     Your  uncle, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

**»«*£•» 

MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

I  accept  with  pleasure  your  evidence  that  the  Piano  is  not  Berkeley, 
as  black  as  I  have  painted,  albeit  the  logical  inference  is 
that  I'm  pretty  black  myself.  Indubitably  I'm  "in  outer 
darkness,"  and  can  only  say  to  you:  "Lead,  kindly  light." 

•Thank  you  for  the  funny  article  on  the  luxury  question  — 
from  the  funny  source.  But  you  really  must  not  expect  me 


14          The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 
3  •  j 

to  answer  it,  nor  show  you  wherein  it  is  "wrong."  I  cannot 
discern  the  expediency  of  you  having  any  "views"  at  all 
in  those  matters  —  even  correct  ones.  If  I  could  have  my 
way  you  should  think  of  more  profitable  things  than  the 
(conceded)  "  wrongness"  of  a  world  which  is  the  habitat  of 
a  wrongheaded  and  wronghearted  race  of  irreclaimable  sav 
ages.  *  *  *  When  woman  "broadens  her  sympathies"  they 
become  annular.  Don't. 

Cosgrave  came  over  yesterday  for  a  "stroll,"  but  as  he 
had  a  dinner  engagement  to  keep  before  going  home,  he  was 
in  gorgeous  gear.  So  I  kindly  hoisted  him  atop  of  Grizzly 
Peak  and  sent  him  back  across  the  Bay  in  a  condition  im 
possible  to  describe,  save  by  the  aid  of  a  wet  dishclout  for 
illustration. 

Please  ask  your  father  when  and  where  he  wants  me  to 
sit  for  the  portrait.  If  that  picture  is  not  sold,  and  ever 
comes  into  my  possession,  I  shall  propose  to  swap  it  for 
yours.  I  have  always  wanted  to  lay  thievish  hands  on  that, 
and  would  even  like  to  come  by  it  honestly.  But  what 
under  the  sun  would  I  do  with  either  that  or  mine?  Fancy 
me  packing  large  paintings  about  to  country  hotels  and 
places  of  last  resort! 

Leigh  is  living  with  me  now.  Poor  chap,  the  death  of  his 
aunt  has  made  him  an  orphan.  I  feel  a  profound  compas 
sion  for  any  one  whom  an  untoward  fate  compels  to  live 
with  me.  However,  such  a  one  is  sure  to  be  a  good  deal 
alone,  which  is  a  mitigation. 

With  good  wishes  for  all  your  people,  I  am  sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

!•»  J*»4* 
Berkeley,    MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

n  1893!     I'm  sending  you  (by  way  of  pretext  for  writing  you)  a 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          35 

magazine  that  I  asked  Richard  to  take  to  you  last  evening, 
but  which  he  forgot.  There's  an  illustrated  article  on  gar 
goyles  and  the  like,  which  will  interest  you.  Some  of  the 
creatures  are  delicious  —  more  so  than  I  had  the  sense  to 
perceive  when  I  saw  them  alive  on  Notre  Dame. 

I  want  to  thank  you  too  for  the  beautiful  muffler  before  I 
take  to  my  willow  chair,  happy  in  the  prospect  of  death. 
For  at  this  hour,  10:35  P-  m->  I  "have  on"  a  very  promising 
case  of  asthma.  If  I  come  out  of  it  decently  alive  in  a  week 
or  so  I  shall  go  over  to  your  house  and  see  the  finished  por 
trait  if  it  is  "still  there,"  like  the  flag  in  our  national 
anthem.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

9+**  6+ 

MY  DEAR  BLANCHE, 

If  you  are  not  utterly  devoured  by  mosquitoes  perhaps  Oakland, 
you'll  go  to  the  post-office  and  get  this.  In  that  hope  I  write,  i^.3*' 
not  without  a  strong  sense  of  the  existence  of  the  clerks  in 
the  Dead  Letter  Office  at  Washington. 

I  hope  you  are  (despite  the  mosquitoes)  having  "  heaps " 
of  rest  and  happiness.  As  to  me,  I  have  only  just  recovered 
sufficiently  to  be  out,  and  "  improved  the  occasion  "  by  going 
to  San  Francisco  yesterday  and  returning  on  the  11:15  boat. 
I  saw  Richard,  and  he  seemed  quite  solemn  at  the  thought 
of  the  dispersal  of  his  family  to  the  four  winds. 

I  have  a  joyous  letter  from  Leigh  dated  "on  the  road," 
nearing  Yosemite.  He  has  been  passing  through  the  storied 
land  of  Bret  Harte,  and  is  permeated  with  a  sense  of  its 
beauty  and  romance.  When  shall  you  return?  May  I  hope, 
then,  to  see  you?  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

P.  S.  Here  are  things  that  I  cut  out  for  memoranda.  On 


36  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

second  thought  /  know  all  that;  so  send  them  to  you  for  the 
betterment  of  your  mind  and  heart.  B. 


DEAR  BLANCHE, 

1894!  Your  kindly  note  was  among  a  number  which  I  put  into 
my  pocket  at  the  postoffice  and  forgot  until  last  evening 
when  I  returned  from  Oakland.  (I  dared  remain  up  there 
only  a  few  hours,  and  the  visit  did  me  no  good.) 

Of  course  I  should  have  known  that  your  good  heartwould 
prompt  the  wish  to  hear  from  your  patient,  but  I  fear  I  was 
a  trifle  misanthropic  all  last  week,  and  indisposed  to  com 
municate  with  my  species. 

I  came  here  on  Monday  of  last  week,  and  the  change  has 
done  me  good.  I  have  no  asthma  and  am  slowly  getting 
back  my  strength. 

Leigh  and  Ina  Peterson  passed  Sunday  with  me,  and 
Leigh  recounted  his  adventures  in  the  mountains.  I  had 
been  greatly  worried  about  him;  it  seems  there  was  abun 
dant  reason.  The  next  time  he  comes  I  wish  he  would 
bring  you.  It  is  lovely  down  here.  Perhaps  you  and  Katie 
can  come  some  time,  and  I'll  drive  you  all  over  the  valley  — 
if  you  care  to  drive. 

If  I  continue  well  I  shall  remain  here  or  hereabout;  if  not 
I  don't  know  where  I  shall  go.  Probably  into  the  Santa 
Cruz  mountains  or  to  Gilroy.  If  I  could  have  my  way  I'd 
live  at  Piedmont. 

Do  you  know  I  lost  Pin  the  Reptile?  I  brought  him  along 
in  my  bicycle  bag  (I  came  the  latter  half  of  the  way  bike- 
back)  and  the  ungrateful  scoundrel  wormed  himself  out  and 
took  to  the  weeds  just  before  we  got  to  San  Jose.  So  I've 
nothing  to  lavish  my  second-childhoodish  affection  upon  — 
nothing  but  just  myself. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          37 

My  permanent  address  is  Oakland,  as  usual,  but  you  may 
address  me  here  at  San  Jose  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to 
address  me  anywhere.  Please  do,  and  tell  me  of  your  tri 
umphs  and  trials  at  the  Conservatory  of  Music.  I  do  fer 
vently  hope  it  may  prove  a  means  of  prosperity  to  you,  for, 
behold,  you  are  The  Only  Girl  in  the  World  Who  Merits 
Prosperity! 

Please  give  my  friendly  regards  to  your  people;  and  so  — 
Heaven  be  good  to  you.  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


O,  BEST  OF  POETS, 

How  have  you  the  heart  to  point  out  what  you  deem  an  Sanjose, 
imperfection  in  those  lines.  Upon  my  soul,  I  swear  they  are  Ig"°t  e     ' 
faultless,  and  "moonlight"  is  henceforth  and  forever  a 
rhyme  to  "delight."  Also,  likewise,  moreover  and  further 
more,  a  -  is  henceforth  -  ;  and  -  are  for 
ever  -  ;  and  to  -  shall  be  -  ;  and  so  forth. 
You  have  established  new  canons  of  literary  criticism  —more 
liberal  ones—  and  death  to  thewretchwhd  does  not  accept 
them  !  Ah,  I  always  knew  you  were^^rfevolutionist. 

Yes,  I  am  in  better  health,  worse  luck!  For  I  miss  the  beef- 
teaing  expeditions  more  than  you  can  by  trying. 

By  the  way,  if  you  again  encounter  your  fellow  practi 
tioner,  Mrs.  Hirshberg,  please  tell  her  what  has  become  of 
her  patient,  and  that  I  remember  her  gratefully. 

It  is  not  uninteresting  to  me  to  hear  of  your  progress  in 
your  art,  albeit  I  am  debarred  from  entrance  into  the  temple 
where  it  is  worshiped.  After  all,  art  finds  its  best  usefulness 
in  its  reaction  upon  the  character;  and  in  that  work  I  can 
trace  your  proficiency  in  the  art  that  you  love.  As  you  be 
come  a  better  artist  you  grow  a  nicer  girl,  and  if  your  music 
does  not  cause  my  tympana  to  move  themselves  aright,  yet 


38  *fht  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

the  niceness  is  not  without  its  effect  upon  the  soul  o*  me. 
So  I'm  not  so  very  inert  a  clod,  after  all. 

No,  Leigh  has  not  infected  me  with  the  exploring  fad.  I 
exhausted  my  capacity  in  that  way  years  before  I  had  the 
advantage  of  his  acquaintance  and  the  contagion  of  his 
example.  But  I  don't  like  to  think  of  that  miserable  moun 
tain  sitting  there  and  grinning  in  the  consciousness  of  hav 
ing  beaten  the  Bierce  family. 

So— apropos  of  my  brother—/  am  "odd"  after  a  certain 
fashion!  My  child,  that  is  blasphemy.  You  grow  hardier 
every  day  of  your  life,  and  you'll  end  as  a  full  colonel  yet, 
and  challenge  Man  to  mortal  combat  in  true  Stetsonian 
style.  Know  thy  place,  thou  atom! 

Speaking  of  colonels  reminds  me  that  one  of  the  most 
eminent  of  the  group  had  the  assurance  to  write  me,  asking 
for  an  "audience"  to  consult  about  a  benefit  that  she  — 
she\  —  is  getting  up  for  my  friend  Miss  *  *  *,  a  glorious 
writer  and  eccentric  old  maid  whom  you  do  not  know. 
*  *  *  evidently  wants  more  notoriety  and  proposes  to  shine 
by  Miss  *  *  *  light.  I  was  compelled  to  lower  the  temper 
ature  of  the  situation  with  a  letter  curtly  courteous.  Not 
even  to  assist  Miss  *  *  *  shall  my  name  be  mixed  up  with 
those  of  that  gang.  But  of  course  all  that  does  not  amuse 
you. 

I  wish  I  could  have  a  chat  with  you.  I  speak  to  nobody 
but  my  chambermaid  and  the  waiter  at  my  restaurant.  By 
the  time  I  see  you  I  shall  have  lost  the  art  of  speech  alto 
gether  and  shall  communicate  with  you  by  the  sign  lan 
guage. 

God  be  good  to  you  and  move  you  to  write  to  me  some 
times.  Sincerely  your  friend, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          39 

[First  part  of  this  letter  missing.] 


*  *  * 


You  may,  I  think,  expect  my  assistance  in  choosing  be 
tween  (or  among)  your  suitors  next  month,  early.  I  propose 
to  try  living  in  Oakland  again  for  a  short  time  beginning 
about  then.  But  I  shall  have  much  to  do  the  first  few  days  — 
possibly  in  settling  my  earthly  affairs  for  it  is  my  determin 
ation  to  be  hanged  for  killing  all  those  suitors.  That  seems 
to  me  the  simplest  way  of  disembarrassing  you.  As  to  me  — 
it  is  the  "line  of  least  resistance"  —unless  they  fight. 

*  *  * 

So  you  have  been  ill.  You  must  not  be  ill,  my  child  —  it 
disturbs  my  Marcus  Aurelian  tranquillity,  and  is  most  self 
ishly  inconsiderate  of  you. 

Mourn  with  me:  the  golden  leaves  of  my  poplars  are  now 
underwheel.  I  sigh  for  the  perennial  eucalyptus  leaf  of 
Piedmont. 

I  hope  you  are  all  well.  Sincerely  your  friend, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Since  writing  you  yesterdayy-dear  Blanche,  I  have  ob-  Sanjose, 
served  that  the  benefit  to  *  *  *  is  not  abandoned  -  it  is  to 
occur  in  the  evening  of  the  26th,  at  Golden  Gate  Hall,  San 
Francisco.  I  recall  your  kind  offer  to  act  for  me  in  any  way 
that  I  might  wish  to  assist  Miss  *  *  *.  Now,  I  will  not  have 
my  name  connected  with  anything  that  the  *  *  *  woman  and 
her  sister-in-evidence  may  do  for  their  own  glorification, 
but  I  enclose  a  Wells,  Fargo  &  Co.  money  order  for  all  the 
money  I  can  presently  afford  —  wherewith  you  may  do  as 
you  will;  buy  tickets,  or  hand  it  to  the  treasurer  in  your 
own  name.  I  know  Miss  *  *  *  must  be  awfully  needy  to 


4o          The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

accept  a  benefit  —  you  have  no  idea  how  sensitive  and  sus 
picious  and  difficult  she  is.  She  is  almost  impossible.  But 
there  are  countless  exactions  on  my  lean  purse,  and  I  must 
*  do  the  rest  with  my  pen.  So  —  I  thank  you. 

Sincerely  your  friend, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

9^  £•»  4*. 

18  Iowa  Circle,    DEAR  STERLING, 
Washington,  D.  C.}        r^^  .     .      •  •,  111  r 

January  i,1  ihis  is  just  a  hasty  note  to  acknowledge  receipt  or  your 
1901.  ietter  anc[  the  poems.  I  hope  to  reach  those  pretty  soon  and 
give  them  the  attention  which  I  am  sure  they  will  prove  to 
merit  —which  I  cannot  do  now.  By  the  way,  I  wonder  why 
most  of  you  youngsters  so  persistently  tackle  the  sonnet. 
For  the  same  reason,  I  suppose,  that  a  fellow  always  wants 
to  make  his  first  appearance  on  the  stage  in  the  role  of 
"Hamlet."  It  is  just  the  holy  cheek  of  you. 

Yes,  Leigh  prospers  fairly  well,  and  I  —  well,  I  don't  know 
if  it  is  prosperity;  it  is  a  pretty  good  time. 

I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  write  to  that  old  scoundrel 
Grizzly,*  to  give  him  my  new  address,  though  I  supposed 
he  had  it;  and  the  old  one  would  do,  anyhow.  Now  that  his 
cub  has  returned  he  probably  doesn't  care  for  the  other 
plantigrades  of  his  kind. 

Thank  you  for  telling  me  so  much  about  some  of  our  com 
panions  and  companionesses  of  the  long  ago.  I  fear  that  not 
all  my  heart  was  in  my  baggage  when  I  came  over  here. 
There's  a  bit  of  it,  for  example,  out  there  by  that  little  lake 
in  the  hills. 

So  I  may  have  a  photograph  of  one  of  your  pretty  sisters. 
Why,  of  course  I  want  it  —  I  want  the  entire  five  of  them; 
their  pictures,  I  mean.  If  you  had  been  a  nice  fellow  you 

*Albert  Bierce. 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          41 

would  have  let  me  know  them  long  ago.  And  how  about 
that  other  pretty  girl,  your  infinitely  better  half?  You 
might  sneak  into  the  envelope  a  little  portrait  of  bery  lest  I 
forget,  lest  I  forget.  But  I've  not  yet  forgotten. 

The  new  century's  best  blessings  to  the  both  o'  you. 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

P.  S.  —  In  your  studies  of  poetry  have  you  dipped  into 
Stedman's  new  "American  Anthology"?  It  is  the  most  not 
able  collection  of  American  verse  that  has  been  made  —  on 
the  whole,  a  book  worth  having.  In  saying  so  I  rather  pride 
myself  on  my  magnanimity;  for  of  course  I  don't  think  he 
has  done  as  well  by  me  as  he  might  have  done.  That,  I 
suppose,  is  what  every  one  thinks  who  happens  to  be  alive 
to  think  it.  So  I  try  to  be  in  the  fashion.  A.  B. 


MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

I've  been  a  long  while  getting  to  your  verses,  but  there  isiowa  circle, 
were  many  reasons  —  including  a  broken  rib.  They  are  janu"'  D 
pretty  good  verses,  with  here  and  there  very  good  lines.  I'd  I9°l- 
a  strong  temptation  to  steal  one  or  two  for  my  "Passing 
Show,"  but  I  knew  what  an  avalanche  of  verses  it  would 
bring  down  upon  me  from  other  poets  —  as  every  mention 
of  a  new  book  loads  my  mail  with  new  books  for  a  month. 

If  I  ventured  to  advise  you  I  should  recommend  to  you 
the  simple,  ordinary  meters  and  forms  native  to  our  lan 
guage. 

I  await  the  photograph  of  the  pretty  sister  —  don't  fancy 
I've  forgotten. 

It  is  i  a.  m.  and  I'm  about  to  drink  your  health  in  a  glass 
of  Riesling  and  eat  it  in  a  pate. 

My  love  to  Grizzly  if  you  ever  see  him.  Yours  ever, 

A.  B. 


42  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

Washington,  D.  C,    MY  DEAR  DOYLE, 

1901!  Your  letter  of  the  i6th  has  just  come  and  as  I  am  waiting 
at  my  office  (where  I  seldom  go)  I  shall  amuse  myself  by 
replying  "to  onct."  See  here,  I  don't  purpose  that  your 
attack  on  poor  Morrow's  book  shall  become  a  "continuous 
performance,"  nor  even  an  "annual  ceremony."  It  is  not 
"rot."  It  is  not  "filthy."  It  does  not  "suggest  bed-pans,"— 
at  least  it  did  not  to  me,  and  I'll  wager  something  that 
Morrow  never  thought  of  them.  Observe  and  consider:  If 
his  hero  and  heroine  had  been  man  and  wife,  the  bed-pan 
would  have  been  there,  just  the  same;  yet  you  would  not 
have  thought  of  it.  Every  reader  would  have  been  touched 
by  the  husband's  devotion.  A  physician  has  to  do  with 
many  unpleasant  things;  whom  do  his  ministrations  dis 
gust?  A  trained  nurse  lives  in  an  atmosphere  of  bed-pans  — 
to  whom  is  her  presence  or  work  suggestive  of  them?  I'm 
thinking  of  the  heroic  Father  Damien  and  his  lepers;  do 
you  dwell  upon  the  rotting  limbs  and  foul  distortions  of  his 
unhappy  charges?  Is  not  his  voluntary  martyrdom  one  of 
the  sanest,  cleanest,  most  elevating  memories  in  all  his 
tory?  Then  it  is  not  the  bed-pan  necessity  that  disgusts 
you;  it  is  something  else.  It  is  the  fact  that  the  hero  of  the 
story,  being  neither  physician,  articled  nurse,  nor  certifi 
cated  husband,  nevertheless  performed  their  work.  He  min 
istered  to  the  helpless  in  a  natural  way  without  authority 
from  church  or  college,  quite  irregular  and  improper  and 
all  that.  My  noble  critic,  there  speaks  in  your  blood  the 
Untamed  Philistine.  You  were  not  caught  young  enough. 
You  came  into  letters  and  art  with  all  your  beastly  con 
ventionalities  in  full  mastery  of  you.  Take  a  purge.  Forget 
that  there  are  Philistines.  Forget  that  they  have  put  their 
abominable  pantalettes  upon  the  legs  of  Nature.  Forget 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          43 

that  their  code  of  morality  and  manners  (it  stinks  worse 
than  a  bed-pan)  does  not  exist  in  the  serene  altitude  of  great 
art,  toward  which  you  have  set  your  toes  and  into  which  I 
want  you  to  climb.  I  know  about  this  thing.  I,  too,  tried  to 
rise  with  all  that  dead  weight  dragging  at  my  feet.  Well,  I 
could  not  —  now  I  could  if  I  cared  to.  In  my  mind  I  do.  It 
is  not  freedom  of  act  —  not  freedom  of  living,  for  which  I 
contend,  but  freedom  of  thought,  of  mind,  of  spirit;  the 
freedom  to  see  in  the  horrible  laws,  prejudices,  custom, 
conventionalities  of  the  multitude,  something  good  for 
them,  but  of  no  value  to  you  in  your  art.  In  your  life  and 
conduct  defer  to  as  much  of  it  as  you  will  (you'll  find  it  con 
venient  to  defer  to  a  whole  lot),  but  in  your  mind  and  art 
let  not  the  Philistine  enter,  nor  even  speak  a  word  through 
the  keyhole.  My  own  chief  objection  to  Morrow's  story  is 
(as  I  apprised  him)  its  unnaturalness.  He  did  not  dare  to 
follow  the  logical  course  of  his  narrative.  He  was  too  cow 
ardly  (or  had  too  keen  an  eye  upon  his  market  of  prudes) 
to  make  hero  and  heroine  join  in  the  holy  bonds  of  ^lock, 
as  they  naturally,  inevitably  and  rightly  would  have  done 
long  before  she  was  able  to  be  about.  I  daresay  that,  too, 
would  have  seemed  to  you  "filthy,"  without  the  parson 
and  his  fee.  When  you  analyze  your  objection  to  the  story 
(as  I  have  tried  to  do  for  you)  you  will  find  that  it  all  crys 
tallizes  into  that  —  the  absence  of  the  parson.  I  don't  envy 
you  your  view  of  the  matter,  and  I  really  don't  think  you 
greatly  enjoy  it  yourself.  I  forgot  to  say:  Suppose  they  had 
been  two  men,  two  partners  in  hunting,  mining,  or  explor 
ing,  as  frequently  occurs.  Would  the  bed-pan  suggestion 
have  come  to  you  ?  Did  it  come  to  you  when  you  read  of  the 
slow,  but  not  uniform,  starvation  of  Greeley's  party  in  the 
arctic?  Of  course  not.  Then  it  is  a  matter,  not  of  bed-pans, 


44  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  fierce 

but  of  sex-exposure  (unauthorized  by  the  church),  of  prud 
ery— of  that  artificial  thing,  the  "sense  of  shame,"  of 
which  the  great  Greeks  knew  nothing;  of  which  the  great 
Japanese  know  nothing;  of  which  Art  knows  nothing.  Dear 
Doctor,  do  you  really  put  trousers  on  your  piano-legs? 
Does  your  indecent  intimacy  with  your  mirror  make  you 
blush? 

There,  there's  the  person  whom  I've  been  waiting  for 
,    (I'm  to  take  her  to  dinner,  and  I'm  not  married  to  even  so 
much  of  her  as  her  little  toe)  has  come;  and  until  you  offend 
again,  you  are  immune  from  the  switch.  May  all  your 
brother  Philistines  have  to  "Kiss  the  place  to  make  it 
well." 
Pan  is  dead!  Long  live  Bed-Pan! 

Yours  ever, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
0t»  «•»«•» 

Washington,    MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

""1901!  I  send  back  the  poems,  with  a  few  suggestions.  You  grow 
great  so  rapidly  that  I  shall  not  much  longer  dare  to  touch 
your  work.  I  mean  that. 

Your  criticisms  of  Stedman's  Anthology  are  just.  But 
equally  just  ones  can  be  made  of  any  anthology.  None  of 
them  can  suit  any  one.  I  fancy  Stedman  did  not  try  to 
"live  up"  to  his  standard,  but  to  make  representative, 
though  not  always  the  best,  selections.  It  would  hardly  do 
to  leave  out  Whitman,  for  example.  We  may  not  like  him; 
thank  God,  we  don't;  but  many  others  —  the  big  fellows 
too  — do;  and  in  England  he  is  thought  great.  And  then 
Stedman  has  the  bad  luck  to  know  a  lot  of  poets  person 
ally  —  many  bad  poets.  Put  yourself  in  his  place.  Would 
you  leave  out  me  if  you  honestly  thought  my  work  bad? 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          45 


In  any  compilation  we  will  all  miss  some  of  our  favor 
ites  —  and  find  some  of  the  public's  favorites.  You  miss 
from  Whittier  "Joseph  Sturge"  —  I  the  sonnet  "Forgive 
ness,"  and  so  forth.  Alas,  there  is  no  universal  standard! 

Thank  you  for  the  photographs.  Miss  *  *  *  is  a  pretty 
girl,  truly,  and  has  the  posing  instinct  as  well.  She  has  the 
place  of  honor  on  my  mantel.  *  *  *  But  what  scurvy  knave 
has  put  the  stage-crime  into  her  mind?  If  you  know  that 
life  as  I  do  you  will  prefer  that  she  die,  poor  girl. 

It  is  no  trouble,  but  a  pleasure,  to  go  over  your  verses  — 
I  am  as  proud  of  your  talent  as  if  I'd  made  it. 

Sincerely  yours, 
[over]  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


About  the  rhymes  in  a  sonnet: 


"Regular,"  or 
Italian  form 
(Petrarch): 


"English" 

form 
(Shakspear's): 


Modern 
English 


Two  or  three 
rhymes;  any 
arrangement 


There  are  good  reasons  for  preferring  the  regular  Italian 
form  created  by  Petrarch  —  who  knew  a  thing  or  two;  and 
sometimes  good  reasons  for  another  arrangement  —  of  the 
sestet  rhymes.  If  one  should  sacrifice  a  great  thought  to  be 
like  Petrarch  one  would  not  resemble  him.  A.  B. 


46  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

Washington,  D.  C,    MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

Mav  2 

1901!  I  am  sending  to  the  "Journal"  your  splendid  poem  on 
Memorial  Day.  Of  course  I  can't  say  what  will  be  its  fate. 
I  am  not  even  personally  acquainted  with  the  editor  of  the 
department  to  which  it  goes.  But  if  he  has  not  the  brains  to 
like  it  he  is  to  send  it  back  and  I'll  try  to  place  it  elsewhere. 
It  is  great  —  great!  —  the  loftiest  note  that  you  have  struck 
and  held. 

Maybe  I  owe  you  a  lot  of  letters.  I  don't  know—  my  corres 
pondence  all  in  arrears  and  I've  not  the  heart  to  take  it  up. 

Thank  you  for  your  kind  words  of  sympathy.*  I'm  hit 
harder  than  any  one  can  guess  from  the  known  facts  —  am 
a  bit  broken  and  gone  gray  of  it  all. 

But  I  remember  you  asked  the  title  of  a  book  of  syno 
nyms.  It  is  "Roget's  Thesaurus,"  a  good  and  useful  book. 

The  other  poems  I  will  look  up  soon  and  consider.  I've 
made  no  alterations  in  the  "Memorial  Day"  except  to 
insert  the  omitted  stanza.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Washington,    MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

190?!  I  send  the  poems  with  suggestions.  There's  naught  to  say 
about  'em  that  I've  not  said  of  your  other  work.  Your 
"growth  in  grace"  (and  other  poetic  qualities)  is  some 
thing  wonderful.  You  are  leaving  my  other  "pupils"  so 
far  behind  that  they  are  no  longer  "in  it."  Seriously,  you 
"promise"  better  than  any  of  the  new  men  in  our  litera 
ture  —  and  perform  better  than  all  but  Markham  in  his 
lucid  intervals,  alas,  too  rare. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

\    *Concerning  the  death  of  his  son  Leigh. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          47 

MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

I  enclose  a  proof  of  the  poem*  —  all  marked  up.  The  poem  Washington, 
was  offered  to  the  Journal,  but  to  the  wrong  editor.  I  would 
not  offer  it  to  him  in  whose  department  it  could  be  used, 
for  he  once  turned  down  some  admirable  verses  of  my 
friend  Scheffauer  which  I  sent  him.  I'm  glad  the  Journal  is 
not  to  have  it,  for  it  now  goes  into  the  Washington  Post  — 
and  the  Post  into  the  best  houses  here  and  elsewhere  —  a 
good,  clean,  unyellow  paper.  I'll  send  you  some  copies  with 
the  poem. 

I  think  my  marks  are  intelligible  —  I  mean  my  remarks. 
Perhaps  you'll  not  approve  all,  or  anything,  that  I  did  to 
the  poem;  I'll  only  ask  you  to  endure.  When  you  publish  in 
covers  you  can  restore  to  the  original  draft  if  you  like.  I  had 
not  time  (after  my  return  from  New  York)  to  get  your 
approval  and  did  the  best  and  the  least  I  could. 


*  *  * 


My  love  to  your  pretty  wife  and  sister.  Let  me  know  how 
hard  you  hate  me  for  monkeying  with  your  sacred  lines. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

Yes,  your  poem  recalled  my  "Invocation"  as  I  read  it; 
but  it  is  better,  and  not  too  much  like  —hardly  like  at  all 
except  in  the  "political"  part.  Both,  in  that,  are  character 
ized,  I  think,  by  decent  restraint.  How  *  *  *  would,  at 
those  places,  have  ranted  and  chewed  soap!  —  a  superior 
quality  of  soap,  I  confess.  A.  B. 


MY  DEAR  STERLING, 
[  am  glad  my  few  ^ 
easing  to  you.  I  me 

'"Memorial  Day."  June  30,  1901. 


MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

I  am  glad  my  few  words  of  commendation  were  not  un-  1825  Nineteenth  St., 
pleasing  to  you.  I  meant  them  all  and  more.  You  ought  to  Washington,  D.  c, 


48  *fbe  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

have  praise,  seeing  that  it  is  all  you  got.  The  "Post,"  like 
most  other  newspapers,  "don't  pay  for  poetry."  What  a 
damning  confession!  It  means  that  the  public  is  as  insen 
sible  to  poetry  as  a  pig  to  —  well,  to  poetry.  To  any  sane 
mind  such  a  poem  as  yours  is  worth  more  than  all  the  other 
contents  of  a  newspaper  for  a  year. 

I've  not  found  time  to  consider  your  "bit  of  blank"  yet  — 
at  least  not  as  carefully  as  it  probably  merits. 

My  relations  with  the  present  editor  of  the  Examiner  are 
not  unfriendly,  I  hope,  but  they  are  too  slight  to  justify 
me  in  suggesting  anything  to  him,  or  even  drawing  his 
attention  to  anything.  I  hoped  you  would  be  sufficiently 
"enterprising"  to  get  your  poem  into  the  paper  if  you  cared 
to  have  it  there.  I  wrote  Dr.  Doyle  about  you.  He  is  a  dear 
fellow  and  you  should  know  each  other.  As  to  Scheffauer, 
he  is  another.  If  you  want  him  to  see  your  poem  why  not 
send  it  to  him?  But  the  last  I  heard  he  was  very  ill.  I'm 
rather  anxious  to  hear  more  about  him. 

It  was  natural  to  enclose  the  stamps,  but  I  won't  have 
it  so  —  so  there!  as  the  women  say. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
*•»*•»*•» 

1 825  Nineteenth  St.,    MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

Washington,  D.  c.i  Here  is  the  bit  of  blank.  When  are  we  to  see  the  book? 
July  15,  Needless  question  —  when  you  can  spare  the  money  to  pay 
for  publication,  I  suppose,  if  by  that  time  you  are  am 
bitious  to  achieve  public  inattention.  That's  my  notion  of 
encouragement  —  I  like  to  cheer  up  the  young  author  as  he 
sets  his  face  toward  "the  peaks  of  song." 

Say,  that  photograph  of  the  pretty  sister  —  the  one  with  a 
downward  slope  of  the  eyes  —  is  all  faded  out.  That  is  a 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          49 

real  misfortune:  it  reduces  the  sum  of  human  happiness 
hereabout.  Can't  you  have  one  done  in  fast  colors  and  let 
me  have  it?  The  other  is  all  right,  but  that  is  not  the  one 
that  I  like  the  better  for  my  wall.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

$&•  £*»  9+ 

MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

I  enclose  the  poerris  with  a  few  suggestions.  They  require 
little  criticism  of  the  sort  that  would  be  "helpful."  As  to  De^e  '   '' 

their  merit  I  think  them  good,  but  not  great.  I  suppose  you  I9°I- 
do  not  expect  to  write  great  things  every  time.  Yet  in  the 
body  of  your  letter  (of  Oct.  22)  you  do  write  greatly  —  and 
say  that  the  work  is  "egoistic"  and  "unprintable."  If  it* 
were  addressed  to  another  person  than  myself  I  should  say 
that  it  is  "printable"  exceedingly.  Call  it  what  you  will, 
but  let  me  tell  you  it  will  probably  be  long  before  you  write 
anything  better  than  some  —  many  —  of  these  stanzas. 

You  ask  if  you  have  correctly  answered  your  own  ques 
tions.  Yes;  in  four  lines  of  your  running  comment: 

"  I  suppose  that  I'd  do  the  greater  good  in  the  long  run  by 
making  my  work  as  good  poetry  as  possible." 

*  *  * 

Of  course  I  deplore  your  tendency  to  dalliance  with  the 
demagogic  muse.  I  hope  you  will  not  set  your  feet  in  the 
dirty  paths  —  leading  nowhither  —  of  social  and  political 
"reform".  .  .  .  I  hope  you  will  not  follow  *  *  *  in  making 
a  sale  of  your  poet's  birthright  for  a  mess  of  "popularity. " 
If  you  do  I  shall  have  to  part  company  with  you,  as  I  have 
done  with  him  and  at  least  one  of  his  betters,  for  I  draw  the 
line  at  demagogues  and  anarchists,  however  gifted  and  how 
ever  beloved. 

*"Dedication"  poem  to  Ambrose  Bierce. 


50          The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

Let  the  "poor"  alone— they  are  oppressed  by  nobody  but 
God.  Nobody  hates  them,  nobody  despises. "The  rich"  love 
them  a  deal  better  than  they  love  one  another.  But  I'll  not 
go  into  these  matters;  your  own  good  sense  must  be  your 
salvation  if  you  are  saved.U  recognise  the  temptations  of 
environment:  you  are  of  San  Francisco,  the  paradise  of  ig- 
norance,  anarchy  and  general  yellowness.ptill,  a  poet  is  not 
altogether  the  creature  of  his  place  and  time—  at  least  not 
of  his  to-day  and  his  parish. 

By  the  way,  you  say  that  *  *  *  is  your  only  associate 
that  knows  anything  of  literature.  She  is  a  dear  girl,  but 
look  out  for  her;  she  will  make  you  an  anarchist  if  she  can, 
and  persuade  you  to  kill  a  President  or  two  every  fine 
morning.  I  warrant  you  she  can  pronounce  the  name  of 
McKinley's  assassin  to  the  ultimate  zed,  and  has  a  little 
graven  image  of  him  next  her  heart. 

Yes,  you  can  republish  the  Memorial  Day  poem  without 
the  Post's  consent  —  could  do  so  in  "  book  form  "  even  if  the 
Post  had  copyrighted  it,  which  it  did  not  do.  I  think  the 
courts  have  held  that  in  purchasing  work  for  publication  in 
his  newspaper  or  magazine  the  editor  acquires  no  right  in 
it,  except  for  that  purpose.  Even  if  he  copyright  it  that  is 
only  to  protect  him  from  other  newspapers  or  magazines; 
the  right  to  publish  in  a  book  remains  with  the  author. 
Better  ask  a  lawyer  though  —  preferably  without  letting 
him  know  whether  you  are  an  editor  or  an  author. 

I  ought  to  have  answered  (as  well  as  able)  these  questions 
before,  but  I  have  been  ill  and  worried,  and  have  written 
few  letters,  and  even  done  little  work,  and  that  only  of  the 
pot-boiling  sort. 

My  daughter  has  recovered  and  returned  to  Los  Angeles. 

Please  thank  Miss  *  *  *  for  the  beautiful  photographs  — 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          51 

I  mean  for  being  so  beautiful  as  to  "  take"  them,  for  doubt 
less  I  owe  their  possession  to  you. 

I  wrote  Doyle  about  you  and  he  cordially  praised  your 
work  as  incomparably  superior  to  his  own  and  asked  that 
you  visit  him.  He's  a  lovable  fellow  and  you'd  not  regret 
going  to  Santa  Cruz  and  boozing  with  him. 

Thank  you  for  the  picture  of  Grizzly  and  the  cub  of  him. 

Sincerely  yours,  with  best  regards  to  the  pretty  ever-so- 
much-better  half  of  you,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

PS    *********** 

8+3+8** 

MY  DEAR  STERLING, 
Where  are  you  going  to  stop?  —  I  mean  at  what  stage  of 

i  IT  1  «      ,      ^      ,       „       r   Washington,  D.  C. 

development:  1  presume  you  have  not  a     whole  lot     of  March  15, 
poems  really  writ,  and  have  not  been  feeding  them  to  me,  I9°2* 
the  least  good  first,  and  not  in  the  order  of  their  produc 
tion.  So  it  must  be  that  you  are  advancing  at  a  stupendous 
rate.  This  last*  beats  any  and  all  that  went  before  —  or  I 
am  bewitched  and  befuddled.  I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  say 
what  I  think  of  it.  In  manner  it  is  great,  but  the  greatness 
of  the  theme!  —  that  is  beyond  anything. 

It  is  a  new  field,  the  broadest  yet  discovered.  To  para 
phrase  Coleridge, 

You  are  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  [unknown]  sea  — 

a  silent  sea  because  no  one  else  has  burst  into  it  in  full  song. 
True,  there  have  been  short  incursions  across  the  "  border, " 
but  only  by  way  of  episode.  The  tremendous  phenomena  of 
Astronomy  have  never  had  adequate  poetic  treatment, 
their  meaning  adequate  expression.  You  must  make  it  your 

*"The  Testimony  of  the  Suns." 


52  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

own  domain.  You  shall  be  the  poet  of  the  skies,  the  prophet 
of  the  suns.  Don't  fiddle-faddle  with  such  infinitesimal  and 
tiresome  trivialities  as  (for  example)  the  immemorial  squab 
bles  of  "  rich  "  and  "  poor  "  on  this  "  mote  in  the  sun-beam. " 
(Both  "classes,"  when  you  come  to  that,  are  about  equally 
disgusting  and  unworthy  —  there's  not  a  pin's  moral  differ 
ence  between  them.)  Let  them  cheat  and  pick  pockets  and 
cut  throats  to  the  satisfaction  of  their  base  instincts,  but  do 
thou  regard  them  not.  Moreover,  by  that  great  law  of  change 
which  you  so  clearly  discern,  there  can  be  no  permanent 
composition  of  their  nasty  strife."  Settle"  it  how  they  will  — 
another  beat  of  the  pendulum  and  all  is  as  before;  and  ere 
another,  Man  will  again  be  savage,  sitting  on  his  naked 
haunches  and  gnawing  raw  bones. 

Yes,  circumstances  make  the  "rich"  what  they  are.  And 
circumstances  make  the  poor  what  they  are.  I  have  known 
both,  long  and  well.  The  rich  —  while  rich  —  are  a  trifle 
better.  There's  nothing  like  poverty  to  nurture  badness. 
But  in  this  country  there  are  no  such  "classes"  as  "rich" 
and  "poor":  as  a  rule,  the  wealthy  man  of  to-day  was  a 
poor  devil  yesterday;  the  poor  devils  of  to-day  have  an 
equal  chance  to  be  rich  to-morrow  —  or  would  have  if  they 
had  equal  brains  and  providence.  The  system  that  gives 
them  the  chance  is  not  an  oppressive  one.  Under  a  really 
oppressive  system  a  salesman  in  a  village  grocery  could  not 
have  risen  to  a  salary  of  one  million  dollars  a  year  because 
he  was  worth  it  to  his  employers,  as  Schwab  has  done. 
True,  some  men  get  rich  by  dishonesty,  but  the  poor  com 
monly  cheat  as  hard  as  they  can  and  remain  poor  —  thereby 
escaping  observation  and  censure.  The  moral  difference  be 
tween  cheating  to  the  limit  of  a  small  opportunity  and 
cheating  to  the  limit  of  a  great  one  is  to  me  indiscernable. 


'The  Letters  of  Ambrose  fierce          53 

The  workman  who  "skimps  his  work"  is  just  as  much  a 
rascal  as  the  "director"  who  corners  a  crop. 

As  to  "Socialism."  I  am  something  of  a  Socialist  myself; 
that  is,  I  think  that  the  principle,  which  has  always  co 
existed  with  competition,  each  safeguarding  the  other,  may 
be  advantageously  extended.  But  those  who  rail  against 
"the  competitive  system,"  and  think  they  suffer  from  it, 
really  suffer  from  their  own  unthrift  and  incapacity.  For 
the  competent  and  provident  it  is  an  ideally  perfect  system. 
As  the  other  fellows  are  not  of  those  who  effect  permanent 
reforms,  or  reforms  of  any  kind,  pure  Socialism  is  the  dream 
of  a  dream. 

But  why  do  I  write  all  this.  One's  opinions  on  such  mat 
ters  are  unaffected  by  reason  and  instance;  they  are  born  of 
feeling  and  temperament.  There  is  a  Socialist  diathesis,  as 
there  is  an  Anarchist  diathesis.  Could  you  teach  a  bulldog 
to  retrieve,  or  a  sheep  to  fetch  and  carry?  Could  you  make 
a  "  born  artist"  comprehend  a  syllogism  ?  As  easily  persuade 
a  poet  that  black  is  not  whatever  color  he  loves.  Somebody 
has  defined  poetry  as  "glorious  nonsense."  It  is  not  an  al 
together  false  definition,  albeit  I  consider  poetry  the  flower 
and  fruit  of  speech  and  would  rather  write  gloriously  than 
sensibly.  But  if  poets  saw  things  as  they  are  they  would 
write  no  more  poetry. 

Nevertheless,  I  venture  to  ask  you:  Can't  you  see  in  the 
prosperity  of  the  strong  and  the  adversity  of  the  weak  a 
part  of  that  great  beneficent  law,  "the  survival  of  the 
fittest"?  Don't  you  see  that  such  evils  as  inhere  in  "the 
competitive  system"  are  evils  only  to  individuals,  but 
blessings  to  the  race  by  gradually  weeding  out  the  incom 
petent  and  their  progeny? 

I've  done,  i'  faith.  Be  any  kind  of  'ist  or  'er  that  you  will, 


54  'The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

but  don't  let  it  get  into  your  ink.  Nobody  is  calling  you  to 
deliver  your  land  from  Error's  chain.  What  we  want  of  you 
is  poetry,  not  politics.  And  if  you  care  for  fame  just  have 
the  goodness  to  consider  if  any  "champion  of  the  poor" 
has  ever  obtained  it.  From  the  earliest  days  down  to  Mas- 
sanielo,  Jack  Cade  and  Eugene  Debs  the  leaders  and 
prophets  of  "the  masses"  have  been  held  unworthy.  And 
with  reason  too,  however  much  injustice  is  mixed  in  with 
the  right  of  it.  Eventually  the  most  conscientious,  popular 
and  successful  "demagogue"  comes  into  a  heritage  of  in 
famy.  The  most  brilliant  gifts  cannot  save  him.  That  will 
be  the  fate  of  Edwin  Markham  if  he  does  not  come  out  o' 
that,  and  it  will  be  the  fate  of  George  Sterling  if  he  will  not 
be  warned. 

You  think  that  "the  main  product  of  that  system"  (the 
"  competitive  ")  "  is  the  love  of  money. "  What  a  case  of  the 
cart  before  the  horse!  The  love  of  money  is  not  the  product, 
but  the  root,  of  the  system  —  not  the  effect,  but  the  cause. 
When  one  man  desires  to  be  better  off  than  another  he 
competes  with  him.  You  can  abolish  the  system  when  you 
can  abolish  the  desire  —  when  you  can  make  man  as  Nature 
did  not  make  him,  content  to  be  as  poor  as  the  poorest.  Do 
away  with  the  desire  to  excel  and  you  may  set  up  your 
Socialism  at  once.  But  what  kind  of  a  race  of  sloths  and 
slugs  will  you  have? 

But,  bless  me,  I  shall  never  have  done  if  I  say  all  that 
comes  to  me. 

Why,  of  course  my  remarks  about  *  *  *  were  facetious  — 
playful.  She  really  is  an  anarchist,  and  her  sympathies  are 
with  criminals,  whom  she  considers  the  "product"  of  the 
laws,  but  —  well,  she  inherited  the  diathesis  and  can  no 
more  help  it  than  she  can  the  color  of  her  pretty  eyes.  But 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          55 

she  is  a  child  —  and  except  in  so  far  as  her  convictions  make 
her  impossible  they  do  not  count.  She  would  not  hurt  a 
fly  —  not  even  if,  like  the  toad,  it  had  a  precious  jewel  in  its 
head  that  it  did  not  work  for.  But  I  am  speaking  of  the 
*  *  *  that  /  knew.  If  I  did  not  know  that  the  anarchist 
leopard's  spots  "will  wash,"  your  words  would  make  me 
think  that  she  might  have  changed.  It  does  not  matter 
what  women  think,  if  thinking  it  may  be  called,  and  *  *  * 
will  never  be  other  than  lovable. 

Lest  you  have  not  a  copy  of  the  verses  addressed  to  me  I 
enclose  one  that  I  made  myself.  Of  course  their  publication 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  pleasing  to  me  if  you  care  to  do 
it.  You  need  not  fear  the  "splendid  weight"  expression, 
and  so  forth  —  there  is  nothing  "conceited"  in  the  poem. 
As  it  was  addressed  to  me,  I  have  not  criticised  it  —  I  can't. 
And  I  guess  it  needs  no  criticism. 

I  fear  for  the  other  two-thirds  of  this  latest  poem.  If  you 
descend  from  Arcturus  to  Earth,  from  your  nebulae  to  your 
neighbors,  from  Life  to  lives,  from  the  measureless  immen 
sities  of  space  to  the  petty  passions  of  us  poor  insects,  won't 
you  incur  the  peril  of  anti-climax?  I  doubt  if  you  can  touch 
the  "human  interest"  after  those  high  themes  without  an 
awful  tumble.  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  the  poem  "peter 
out,"  or  "soak  in."  It  would  be  as  if  Goethe  had  let  his 
"Prologue  in  Heaven"  expire  in  a  coon  song.  You  have 
reached  the  "heights  of  dream"  all  right,  but  how  are  you 
to  stay  there  to  the  end?  By  the  way,  you  must  perfect 
yourself  in  Astronomy,  or  rather  get  a  general  knowledge  of 
it,  which  I  fear  you  lack.  Be  sure  about  the  pronunciation 
of  astronomical  names. 

I  have  read  some  of  Jack  London's  work  and  think  it 
clever.  Of  Whitaker  I  never  before  heard,  I  fear.  If  London 


56          The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

wants  to  criticise  your  "Star  poem"  what's  the  objection? 
I  should  not  think,  though,  from  his  eulogism  of*  *  *,  that 
he  is  very  critical.  *  *  * 

Where  are  you  to  place  Browning?  Among  thinkers.  In 
his  younger  days,  when  he  wrote  in  English,  he  stood  among 
the  poets.  I  remember  writing  once— of  the  thinker :"  There's 
nothing  more  obscure  than  Browning  except  blacking."  Til 
stand  to  that. 

No,  don't  take  the  trouble  to  send  me  a  copy  of  these 
verses:  I  expect  to  see  them  in  a  book  pretty  soon.  *  *  * 
Sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

**£*»£•» 

TheOlympia,    DEAR  STERLING, 

mg  ch  31)  I  am  glad  to  know  that  you  too  have  a  good  opinion  of 
J9°2-  that  poem.*  One  should  know  about  one's  own  work.  Most 
writers  think  their  work  good,  but  good  writers  know  it. 
Pardon  me  if  I  underrated  your  astronomical  knowledge. 
My  belief  was  based  on  your  use  of  those  names.  I  never 
met  with  the  spelling  "Betelgeux";  and  even  if  it  is  correct 
and  picturesque  I'd  not  use  it  if  I  were  you,  for  it  does  not 
quite  speak  itself,  and  you  can't  afford  to  jolt  the  reader's 
attention  from  your  thought  to  a  matter  of  pronunciation. 
In  my  student  days  we,  I  am  sure,  were  taught  to  say 
Procy'on.  I  don't  think  I've  heard  it  pronounced  since,  and 
I've  no  authority  at  hand.  Ifyou  are  satisfied  withPro'cyon 
I  suppose  it  is  that.  But  your  pronunciation  was  Aldeb'aran 
or  your  meter  very  crazy  indeed.  I  asked  (with  an  interro 
gation  point)  if  it  were  not  Aldeba'ran— and  I  think  it  is. 
Fomalhaut  I  don't  know  about;  I  thought  it  French  and 
masculine.  In  that  case  it  would,  I  suppose,  be  "ho,"  not 
"hote." 

*"The  Testimony  of  the  Suns." 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          57 

Don't  cut  out  that  stanza,  even  if  "clime"  doesn't  seem 
to  me  to  have  anything  to  do  with  duration.  The  stanza  is 
good  enough  to  stand  a  blemish. 

"Ye  stand  rebuked  by  suns  who  claim  "  —  I  was  wrong  in 
substituting  "  that "  for  "who,"  not  observing  that  it  would 
make  it  ambiguous.  I  merely  yielded  to  a  favorite  impulse: 
to  say  "that"  instead  of  "who,"  and  did  not  count  the 
cost. 

Don't  cut  out  any  stanza  —  if  you  can't  perfect  them  let 
them  go  imperfect. 

"Without  or  genesis  or  end." 

"  Devoid  of  birth,  devoid  of  end. " 
These  are  not  so  good  as 

"Without  beginning,  without  end";  —  I  submit  them  to 
suggest  a  way  to  overcome  that  identical  rhyme.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  get  rid  of  the  second  "without."  I  should  not 
like  "impend." 

Yes,  I  vote  for  Orion's  sword  of  suns.  "Cimetar"  sounds 
better,  but  it  is  more  specific  —  less  generic.  It  is  modern  — 
or,  rather,  less  ancient  than  "sword,"  and  makes  one  think 
of  Turkey  and  the  Holy  Land.  But  "sword"  —  there  were 
swords  before  Homer.  And  I  don't  think  the  man  who 
named  this  constellation  ever  saw  a  curved  blade.  And  yet, 
and  yet  —  "cimetar  of  suns"  is  "mighty  catchin'." 

No,  indeed,  I  could  not  object  to  your  considering  the 
heavens  in  a  state  of  war.  I  have  sometimes  fancied  I  could 
hear  the  rush  and  roar  of  it.  Why,  a  few  months  ago  I  began 
a  sonnet  thus: 

"Not  as  two  erring  spheres  together  grind, 
With  monstrous  ruin,  in  the  vast  of  space, 
Destruction  born  of  that  malign  embrace  — 
Their  hapless  peoples  all  to  death  consigned  —  "etc. 


58  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

I've  been  a  star-gazer  all  my  life  —  from  my  habit  of  being 
"out  late/'  I  guess;  and  the  things  have  always  seemed  to 
me  alive. 

The  change  in  the  verses  ad  meum,  from  "thy  clearer 
light"  to  "the  clearer  light"  may  have  been  made  modestly 
or  inadvertently  —  I  don't  recollect.  It  is,  of  course,  no 
improvement  and  you  may  do  as  you  please.  I'm  uniformly 
inadvertent,  but  intermittently  modest. 

*  *  * 

A  class  of  stuff  that  I  can't  (without"  trouble  in  the  office") 
write  my  own  way  I  will  not  write  at  all.  So  I'm  writing 
very  little  of  anything  but  nonsense.  *  *  * 
With  best  regards  to  Mrs.  Sterling  and  Miss  Marian  I  am 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

Leigh  died  a  year  ago  this  morning.  I  wish  I  could  stop 
counting  the  days. 

£*»£^£*» 

TheOlympia,    DEAR  STERLING, 
Washington,^.  C,        M    ^  _  j    ^    wanted    you    tQ    be   ^    about    those 

19°2-  names  of  stars;  it  would  never  do  to  be  less  than  sure. 

After  all  our  talk  (made  by  me)  I  guess  that  stanza  would 
better  stand  as  first  written.  "Clime"— climate— connotes 
temperature,weather,  and  so  forth,  in  ordinary  speech,  but 
a  poet  may  make  his  own  definitions,!  suppose, and  compel 
the  reader  to  study  them  out  and  accept  them. 

Your  misgiving  regarding  your  inability  to  reach  so  high 
a  plane  again  as  in  this  poem  is  amusing,  but  has  an  ele 
ment  of  the  pathetic.  It  certainly  is  a  misfortune  for  a 
writer  to  do  his  best  work  early;  but  I  fancy  you'd  better 
trust  your  genius  and  do  its  bidding  whenever  the  monkey 
chooses  to  bite.  "The  Lord  will  provide."  Of  course  you 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          59 

have  read  Stockton's  story  "His  Wife's  Deceased  Sister." 
But  Stockton  gets  on  very  well,  despite  "The  Lady  or  the 
Tiger."  I've  a  notion  that  you'll  find  other  tragedies  among 
the  stars  if  earth  doesn't  supply  you  with  high  enough 
themes. 

Will  I  write  a  preface  for  the  book?  Why,  yes,  if  you  think 
me  competent.  Emerson  commands  us  to  "  hitch  our  wagon 
to  a  star?"  and,  egad!  here's  a  whole  constellation  —  a  uni 
verse  —  of  stars  to  draw  mine!  It  makes  me  blink  to  think 
of  it. 

O  yes,  I'd  like  well  enough  to  "leave  the  Journal,"  but  — 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

If  rejection  wounded,  all  writers  would  bleed  at  every  pore. 
Nevertheless,  not  my  will  but  thine  be  done.  Of  course  I  ju*y  /of*0"' 
shall  be  glad  to  go  over  your  entire  body  of  work  again  and  I9^2- 
make  suggestions  if  any  occur  to  me.  It  will  be  no  trouble  — 
I  could  not  be  more  profitably  employed  than  in  critically 
reading  you,  nor  more  agreeably. 


*  *  * 


Of  course  your  star  poem  has  one  defect  —  if  it  is  a  de 
fect  —  that  limits  the  circle  of  understanding  and  admir 
ing  readers  —  its  lack  of  "human  interest."  We  human 
insects,  as  a  rule,  care  for  nothing  but  ourselves,  and  think 
that  is  best  which  most  closely  touches  such  emotions  and 
sentiments  as  grow  out  of  our  relations,  the  one  with 
another.  I  don't  share  the  preference,  and  a  few  others  do 
not,  believing  that  there  are  things  more  interesting  than 
men  and  women.  The  Heavens,  for  example.  But  who 
knows,  or  cares  anything  about  them  —  even  knows  the 


60          *¥be  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

name  of  a  single  constellation?  Hardly  any  one  but  the 
professional  astronomers  —  and  there  are  not  enough  of 
them  to  buy  your  books  and  give  you  fame.  I  should  be 
sorry  not  to  have  that  poem  published  —  sorry  if  you  did 
not  write  more  of  the  kind.  But  while  it  may  impress  and 
dazzle  "  the  many"  it  will  not  win  them.  They  want  you  to 
finger  their  heart-strings  and  pull  the  cord  that  works  their 
arms  and  legs.  So  you  must  finger  and  pull  —  too. 

The  Chateau  Yquem  came  all  right,  and  is  good.  Thank 
you  for  it  —  albeit  I'm  sorry  you  feel  that  you  must  do 
things  like  that.  It  is  very  conventional  and,  I  fear, 
"proper."  However,  I  remember  that  you  used  to  do  so 
when  you  could  not  by  any  stretch  of  imagination  have  felt 
that  you  were  under  an  "obligation."  So  I  guess  it  is  all 
right  — just  your  way  of  reminding  me  of  the  old  days. 
Anyhow,  the  wine  is  so  much  better  than  my  own  that  I've 
never  a  scruple  when  drinking  it. 

Has  "Maid  Marian"  a  photograph  of  me?  — I  don't 
remember.  If  not  I'll  send  her  one;  I've  just  had  some 
printed  from  a  negative  five  or  six  years  old.  I've  renounced 
the  photograph  habit,  as  one  renounces  other  habits  when 
age  has  made  them  ridiculous  —  or  impossible. 

Send  me  the  typewritten  book  when  you  have  it  complete. 
Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
«•»*•»«•» 

Washington,    MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

02!     I  suppose  you  are  in  Seattle,  but  this  letter  will  keep  till 
your  return. 

I  am  delighted  to  know  that  I  am  to  have  "the  book"  so 
soon,  and  will  give  it  my  best  attention  and  (if  you  still 
desire)  some  prefatory  lines.  Think  out  a  good  title  and  I 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          61 

shall  myself  be  hospitable  to  any  suggestion  of  my  daemon 
in  the  matter.  He  has  given  me  nothing  for  the  star  poem 
yet.  *  *  * 

You'll  "learn  in  suffering  what  you  teach  in  song,"  all 
right;  but  let  us  hope  the  song  will  be  the  richer  for  it.  It 
will  be.  For  that  reason  I  never  altogether  "pity  the  sor 
rows"  of  a  writer  —  knowing  they  are  good  for  him.  He 
needs  them  in  his  business.  I  suspect  you  must  have  shed  a 
tear  or  two  since  I  knew  you. 

I'm  sending  you  a  photograph,  but  you  did  not  tell  me  if 
Maid  Marian  the  Superb  already  has  one  —  that's  what  I 
asked  you,  and  if  you  don't  answer  I  shall  ask  her. 

*  *  * 

Yes,  I  am  fairly  well,  and,  though  not  "happy,  "content. 
But  I'm  dreadfully  sorry  about  Peterson. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

I  am  about  to  break  up  my  present  establishment  and 

don't  know  where  my  next  will  be.  Better  address  me  "  Care 

N.  Y.  American  and  Journal  Bureau,  Washington,  D.  C." 

You  see  I'm  still  chained  to  the  oar  of  yellow  journalism, 

but  it  is  a  rather  light  servitude. 


DEAR  STERLING, 

I  fancy  you  must  fear  by  this  time  that  I  did  not  get  the  Address  me  at 
poems,  but  I  did.  I'll  get  at  them,  doubtless,  after  awhile,  JSd^^T 
though  a  good  deal  of  manuscript  —  including  a  couple  of  December  20, 
novels!  —  is  ahead  of  them;  and  one  published  book  of  bad 
poems  awaits  a  particular  condemnation. 

I'm  a  little  embarrassed  about  the  preface  which  I'm  to 
write.  I  fear  you  must  forego  the  preface  or  I  the  dedica- 


62  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

tion.  That  kind  of  "  cooperation  "  doesn't  seem  in  very  good 
taste:  it  smacks  of  "mutual  admiration"  in  the  bad  sense, 
and  the  reviewers  would  probably  call  it  "log-rolling."  Of 
course  it  doesn't  matter  too  much  what  the  reviewers  say, 
but  it  matters  a  lot  what  the  intelligent  readers  think;  and 
your  book  will  have  no  others.  I  really  shouldn't  like  to 
write  the  preface  of  a  book  dedicated  to  me,  though  I  did 
not  think  of  that  at  first. 

The  difficulty  could  be  easily  removed  by  not  dedicating 
the  book  to  me  were  it  not  that  that  would  sacrifice  the 
noble  poem  with  my  name  atop  of  it.  That  poem  is  itself 
sufficiently  dedicatory  if  printed  by  itself  in  the  forepages 
of  the  book  and  labeled  "  Dedication  —  To  Ambrose 
Bierce."  I'm  sure  that  vanity  has  nothing  to  do,  or  little 
to  do,  with  my  good  opinion  of  the  verses.  And,  after  all, 
they  show  that  I  have  said  to  you  all  that  I  could  say  to  the 
reader  in  your  praise  and  encouragement.  What  do  you 
think? 

As  to  dedicating  individual  poems  to  other  fellows,  I  have 
not  the  slightest  hesitancy  in  advising  you  against  it.  The 
practice  smacks  of  the  amateur  and  is  never,  I  think,  pleas 
ing  to  anybody  but  the  person  so  honored.  The  custom  has 
fallen  into  "innocuous  desuetude"  and  there  appears  to  be 
no  call  for  its  revival.  Pay  off  your  obligations  (if  such  there 
be)  otherwise.  You  may  put  it  this  way  if  you  like:  The 
whole  book  being  dedicated  to  me,  no  part  of  it  can  be 
dedicated  to  another.  Or  this  way:  Secure  in  my  exalted 
position  I  don't  purpose  sharing  the  throne  with  rival  (and 
inferior)  claimants.  They  be  gam  doodled! 

Seriously  —  but  I  guess  it  is  serious  enough  as  it  stands. 
It  occurs  to  me  that  in  saying:  "no  part  of  it  can  be  dedi 
cated  to  another"  I  might  be  understood  as  meaning:  "no 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          63 

part  of  it  must  be,"  etc.  No;  I  mean  only  that  the  dedica 
tion  to  another  would  contradict  the  dedication  to  me.  The 
two  things  are  (as  a  matter  of  fact)  incompatible. 

Well,  if  you  think  a  short  preface  by  me  preferable  to  the 
verses  with  my  name,  all  right;  I  will  cheerfully  write  it, 
and  that  will  leave  you  free  to  honor  your  other  friends  if 
you  care  to.  But  those  are  great  lines,  and  implying,  as  they 
do,  all  that  a  set  preface  could  say,  it  seems  to  me  that  they 
ought  to  stand. 


*  *  * 


Maid  Marian  shall  have  the  photograph. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
*»*•»*•» 

MY  DEAR  STERLING, 
You  are  a  brick.  You  shall  do  as  you  will.  My  chief  reluc-  13^  Yak  street, 

i         •  r  •     i  ,  7-1  1  Washington.  D.  C, 

tance  is  that  if  it  become  known,  or  when  it  becomes  known,  March  i, 
there  may  ensue  a  suspicion  of  my  honesty  in  praising  you  I9°3> 
and  your  book;  for  critics  and  readers  are  not  likely  to  look 
into  the  matter  of  dates.  For  your  sake  I  should  be  sorry  to 
have  it  thought  that  my  commendation  was  only  a  log 
rolling  incident;  for  myself,  I  should  care  nothing  about  it. 
This  eel  is  accustomed  to  skinning. 

It  is  not  the  least  pleasing  of  my  reflections  that  my 
friends  have  always  liked  my  work  —  or  me  —  well  enough 
to  want  to  publish  my  books  at  their  own  expense.  Every 
thing  that  I  have  written  could  go  to  the  public  that  way 
if  I  would  consent.  In  the  two  instances  in  which  I  did  con 
sent  they  got  their  money  back  all  right,  and  I  do  not  doubt 
that  it  will  be  so  in  this;  for  if  I  did  not  think  there  was  at 
least  a  little  profit  in  a  book  of  mine  I  should  not  offer  it  to 
a  publisher.  "Shapes  of  Clay"  ought  to  be  published  in 


64          The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

California,  and  it  would  have  been  long  ago  if  I  had  not 
been  so  lazy  and  so  indisposed  to  dicker  with  the  publishers. 
Properly  advertised  —  which  no  book  of  mine  ever  has 
been  —  it  should  sell  there  if  nowhere  else.  Why,  then,  do 
I  not  put  up  the  money?  Well,  for  one  reason,  I've  none  to 
put  up.  Do  you  care  for  the  other  reasons  ? 

But  I  must  make  this  a  condition.  If  there  is  a  loss,  /am 
to  bear  it.  To  that  end  I  shall  expect  an  exact  accounting 
from  your  Mr.  Wood,  and  the  percentage  that  Scheff.  pur 
poses  having  him  pay  to  me  is  to  go  to  you.  The  copyright 
is  to  be  mine,  but  nothing  else  until  you  are  entirely  re 
couped.  But  all  this  I  will  arrange  with  Scheff.,  who,  I  take 
it,  is  to  attend  to  the  business  end  of  the  matter,  with,  of 
course,  your  assent  to  the  arrangements  that  he  makes. 

I  shall  write  Scheff.  to-day  to  go  ahead  and  make  his  con 
tract  with  Mr.  Wood  on  these  lines.  Scheff.  appears  not  to 
know  who  the  "angel"  in  the  case  is,  and  he  need  not, 
unless,  or  until,  you  want  him  to. 

I've  a  pretty  letter  from  Maid  Marian  in  acknowledg 
ment  of  the  photograph.  I  shall  send  one  to  Mrs.  Sterling 
at  once,  in  the  sure  and  certain  hope  of  getting  another.  It 
is  good  of  her  to  remember  my  existence,  considering  that 
your  scoundrelly  monopoly  of  her  permitted  us  to  meet  so 
seldom.  I  go  in  for  a  heavy  tax  on  married  men  who  live 
with  their  wives. 

"She  holds  no  truce  with  Death  or  Peace"  means  that 
with  one  of  them  she  holds  no  truce;  "nor"  makes  it  mean 
that  she  holds  no  truce  with  either.  The  misuse  of  "or"  (its 
use  to  mean  "nor")  is  nearly  everybody's  upsetting  sin.  So 
common  is  it  that  "nor"  instead  usually  sounds  harsh. 

I  omitted  the  verses  on  "Puck,"  not  because  Bunner  is 
dead,  but  because  his  work  is  dead  too,  and  the  verses 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          65 

appear  to  lack  intrinsic  merit  to  stand  alone.  I  shall  per 
haps  omit  a  few  more  when  I  get  the  proofs  (I  wish  you 
could  see  the  bushels  I've  left  out  already)  and  add  a  few 
serious  ones. 

I'm  glad  no  end  that  you  and  Scheff.  have  met.  Fm  fond 
of  the  boy  and  he  likes  me,  I  think.  He  too  has  a  book  of 
verses  on  the  ways,  and  I  hope  for  it  a  successful  launching. 
I've  been  through  it  all;  some  of  it  is  great  in  the  matter  of 
thews  and  brawn;  some  fine. 

Pardon  the  typewriter;  I  wanted  a  copy  of  this  letter. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

£«»  £*»  £*» 

DEAR  STERLING, 

It  is  good  to  hear  from  you  again  and  to  know  that  the  The  New  York 
book  is  so  nearly  complete  as  to  be  in  the  hands  of  the  pub- 
lishers.  I  dare  say  they  will  not  have  it,  and  you'll  have  to  June  X3 
get  it  out  at  your  own  expense.  When  it  comes  to  that  I  I9°3 
shall  hope  to  be  of  service  to  you,  as  you  have  been  to  me. 

So  you  like  Scheff.  Yes,  he  is  a  good  boy  and  a  good  friend. 
I  wish  you  had  met  our  friend  Dr.  Doyle,  who  has  now 
gone  the  long,  lone  journey.  It  has  made  a  difference  to  me, 
but  that  matters  little,  for  the  time  is  short  in  which  to 
grieve.  I  shall  soon  be  going  his  way. 

No,  I  shall  not  put  anything  about  the  *  *  *  person  into 
"Shapes  of  Clay."  His  offence  demands  another  kind  of 
punishment,  and  until  I  meet  him  he  goes  unpunished.  I 
once  went  to  San  Francisco  to  punish  him  (but  that  was  in 
hot  blood)  but  *  *  *  of  "The  Wave"  told  me  the  man  was 
a  hopeless  invalid,  suffering  from  locomotor  ataxia.  I  have 
always  believed  that  until  I  got  your  letter  and  one  from 
Scheff.  Is  it  not  so?  — or  was  it  not?  If  not  he  has  good 


66  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

reason  to  think  me  a  coward,  for  his  offence  was  what  men 
are  killed  for;  but  of  course  one  does  not  kill  a  helpless  per 
son,  no  matter  what  the  offence  is.  If  *  *  *  lied  to  me  I  am 
most  anxious  to  know  it;  he  has  always  professed  himself  a 
devoted  friend. 

The  passage  that  you  quote  from  Jack  London  strikes  me 
as  good.  I  don't  dislike  the  word  "penetrate"  —  rather  like 
it.  It  is  in  frequent  use  regarding  exploration  and  discov 
ery.  But  I  think  you  right  about  "rippling";  it  is  too  lively 
a  word  to  be  outfitted  with  such  an  adjective  as  "melan 
choly."  I  see  London  has  an  excellent  article  in  "The 
Critic  "  on  "  The  Terrible  and  Tragic  in  Fiction. "  He  knows 
how  to  think  a  bit. 

What  do  I  think  of  Cowley-Brown  and  his  "  Goosequill "  ? 
I  did  not  know  that  he  had  revived  it;  it  died  several  years 
ago.  I  never  met  him,  but  in  both  Chicago  and  London 
(where  he  had  "The  Philistine,"  or  "The  Anti-Philistine," 
I  do  not  at  the  moment  remember  which)  he  was  most  kind 
to  me  and  my  work.  In  one  number  of  his  magazine  —  the 
London  one  —  he  had  four  of  my  stories  and  a  long  article 
about  me  which  called  the  blushes  to  my  maiden  cheek  like 
the  reflection  of  a  red  rose  in  the  petal  of  a  violet.  Natur 
ally  I  think  well  of  Cowley-Brown. 

You  make  me  sad  to  think  of  the  long  leagues  and  the 
monstrous  convexity  of  the  earth  separating  me  from  your 
camp  in  the  redwoods.  There  are  few  things  that  I  would 
rather  do  than  join  that  party;  and  I'd  be  the  last  to  strike 
my  tent  and  sling  my  swag.  Alas,  it  cannot  be  —  not  this 
year.  My  outings  are  limited  to  short  runs  along  this  coast. 
I  was  about  to  set  out  on  one  this  morning;  and  wrote  a 
hasty  note  to  Scheffin  consequence  of  my  preparations.  In 
five  hours  I  was  suffering  from  asthma,  and  am  now  con- 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          67 

fined  to  my  room.  But  for  eight  months  of  the  year  here  I 
am  immune  —  as  I  never  was  out  there. 


*  *  * 


You  will  have  to  prepare  yourself  to  endure  a  good  deal  of 
praise  when  that  book  is  out.  One  does  not  mind  when  one 
gets  accustomed  to  it.  It  neither  pleases  nor  bores;  you 
will  have  just  no  feeling  about  it  at  all.  But  if  you  really 
care  for  my  praise  I  hope  you  have  quoted  a  bit  of  it  at  the 
head  of  those  dedicatory  verses,  as  I  suggested.  That  will 
give  them  a  raison  d'etre. 

With  best  regards  to  Mrs.  Sterling  and  Katie  I  am  sin 
cerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

P.  S.— If  not  too  much  trouble  you  may  remind  Dick 
Partington  and  wife  that  I  continue  to  exist  and  to  remem 
ber  them  pleasantly. 

£*«*£•» 

DEAR  SCHEFF: 
I  got  the  proofs  yesterday,  and  am  returning  them  by  this  N- Yr" American" 

M     T-I       T<  r  „  •  •    r  Bureau, 

mail.  I  he     report  or  progress     is  every  way  satisfactory,  Washington,  D.  C, 
and  I  don't  doubt  that  a  neat  job  is  being  done. 

The  correction  that  you  made  is  approved.  I  should  have 
wanted  and  expected  you  to  make  many  corrections  and 
suggestions,  but  that  I  have  had  a  purpose  in  making  this 
book— namely,  that  it  should  represent  my  work  at  its  aver 
age.  In  pursuance  of  this  notion  I  was  not  hospitable  even 
to  suggestions,  and  have  retained  much  work  that  I  did  not 
myself  particularly  approve;  some  of  it  trivial.  You  know 
I  have  always  been  addicted  to  trifling,  and  no  book  from 
which  trivialities  were  excluded  would  fairly  represent  me. 

I  could  not  commend  this  notion  in  another.  In  your  work 
and  Sterling's  I  have  striven  hard  to  help  you  to  come  as 
near  to  perfection  as  we  could,  because  perfection  is  what 


68  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

you  and  he  want,  and  as  young  writers  ought  to  want,  the 
character  of  your  work  being  higher  than  mine.  I  reached 
my  literary  level  long  ago,  and  seeing  that  it  is  not  a  high 
one  there  would  seem  to  be  a  certain  affectation,  even  a 
certain  dishonesty,  in  making  it  seem  higher  than  it  is  by 
republication  of  my  best  only.  Of  course  I  have  not  carried 
out  this  plan  so  consistently  as  to  make  the  book  dull:  I 
had  to  "draw  the  line"  at  that. 

I  say  all  this  because  I  don't  want  you  and  Sterling  to 
think  that  I  disdain  assistance:  I  simply  decided  before 
hand  not  to  avail  myself  of  its  obvious  advantages.  You 
would  have  done  as  much  for  the  book  in  one  way  as  you 
have  done  in  another. 

I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  suggest  that  Mr.  Wood  have  a  man 
go  over  all  the  matter  in  the  book,  and  see  that  none  of  the 
pieces  are  duplicated,  as  I  fear  they  are.  Reading  the  titles 
will  not  be  enough:  I  might  have  given  the  same  piece  two 
titles.  It  will  be  necessary  to  compare  first  lines,  I  think. 
That  will  be  drudgery  which  I'll  not  ask  you  to  undertake: 
some  of  Wood's  men,  or  some  of  the  printer's  men,  will  do 
it  as  well;  it  is  in  the  line  of  their  work. 

The  "Dies  Irae"  is  the  most  earnest  and  sincere  of  relig 
ious  poems;  my  travesty  of  it  is  mere  solemn  fooling,  which 
fact  is  "given  away"  in  the  prose  introduction,  where  I 
speak  of  my  version  being  of  possible  service  in  the  church! 
The  travesty  is  not  altogether  unfair  —  it  was  inevitably 
suggested  by  the  author's  obvious  inaccessibility  to  humor 
and  logic  —  a  peculiarity  that  is,  however,  observable  in  all 
religious  literature,  for  it  is  a  fundamental  necessity  to  the 
religious  mind.  Without  logic  and  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous  a 
man  is  religious  as  certainly  as  without  webbed  feet  a  bird 
has  the  land  habit. 


T'he  Letters  of  Ambrose  fierce          69 

It  is  funny,  but  I  am  a  "whole  lot"  more  interested  in 
seeing  your  cover  of  the  book  than  my  contents  of  it.  I 
don't  at  all  doubt  —  since  you  dared  undertake  it  —  that 
your  great  conception  will  find  a  fit  interpreter  in  your 
hand;  so  my  feeling  is  not  anxiety.  It  is  just  interest  —  pure 
interest  in  what  is  above  my  powers,  but  in  which  you  can 
work.  By  the  way,  Keller,  of  the  old  "Wasp"  was  not  the 
best  of  its  cartoonists.  The  best  —  the  best  of  #// cartoonists 
if  he  had  not  died  at  eighteen  —  was  another  German, 
named  Barkhaus.  I  have  all  his  work  and  have  long  cher 
ished  a  wish  to  republish  it  with  the  needed  explanatory 
text  —  much  of  it  being  "  local "  and  "  transient. "  Some  day, 
perhaps  —  most  likely  not.  But  Barkhaus  was  a  giant. 

How  I  envy  you !  There  .are  few  things  that  would  please 
me  so  well  as  to  "drop  in"  on  you  folks  in  Sterling's  camp. 
Honestly,  I  think  all  that  prevents  is  the  (to  me)  killing 
journey  by  rail.  And  two  months  would  be  required,  going 
and  returning  by  sea.  But  the  rail  trip  across  the  continent 
always  gives  me  a  horrible  case  of  asthma,  which  lasts  for 
weeks.  I  shall  never  take  /£#/ journey  again  if  I  can  avoid 
it.  What  times  you  and  they  will  have  about  the  campfire 
and  the  table!  I  feel  like  an  exile,  though  I  fear  I  don't  look 
and  act  the  part. 

I  did  not  make  the  little  excursion  I  was  about  to  take 
when  I  wrote  you  recently.  Almost  as  I  posted  the  letter  I 
was  taken  ill  and  have  not  been  well  since. 

Poor  Doyle!  how  thoughtful  of  him  to  provide  for  the 
destruction  of  my  letters!  But  I  fear  Mrs.  Doyle  found 

some  of  them  queer  reading  —  if  she  read  them. 

*  *  * 

Great  Scott!  if  ever  they  begin  to  publish  mine  there  will 
be  a  circus !  For  of  course  the  women  will  be  the  chief  sin- 


jo          'The  Letters  of  Ambrose  fierce 

ners,  and  —  well,  they  have  material  a-plenty;  they  can 
make  many  volumes,  and  your  poor  dead  friend  will  have 
so  bad  a  reputation  that  you'll  swear  you  never  knew  him. 
I  dare  say,  though,  you  have  sometimes  been  indiscreet, 
too.  My  besetting  sin  has  been  in  writing  to  my  girl  friends 
as  if  they  were  sweethearts —the  which  they'll  doubtless 
not  be  slow  to  affirm.  The  fact  that  they  write  to  me  in  the 
same  way  will  be  no  defense;  for  when  I'm  worm's  meat  I 
can't  present  the  proof  —  and  wouldn't  if  I  could.  Maybe  it 
won't  matter  —  if  I  don't  turn  in  my  grave  and  so  bother 
the  worms. 

As  Doyle's  "literary  executor"  I  fear  your  duties  will  be 
light:  he  probably  did  not  leave  much  manuscript.  I  judge 
from  his  letters  that  he  was  despondent  about  his  work  and 
the  narrow  acceptance  that  it  had.  So  I  assume  that  he  did 
not  leave  much  more  than  the  book  of  poems,  which  no 
publisher  would  (or  will)  take. 

You  are  about  to  encounter  the  same  stupid  indifference 
of  the  public  —  so  is  Sterling.  I'm  sure  of  Sterling,  but  don't 
quite  know  how  it  will  affect  you.  You're  a  pretty  sturdy 
fellow,  physically  and  mentally,  but  this  may  hurt  horribly. 
I  pray  that  it  do  not,  and  could  give  you  —  perhaps  have 
given  you  —  a  thousand  reasons  why  it  should  not.  You  are 
still  young  and  your  fame  may  come  while  you  live;  but 
you  must  not  expect  it  now,  and  doubtless  do  not.  To  me, 
and  I  hope  to  you,  the  approval  of  one  person  who  knows 
is  sweeter  than  the  acclaim  of  ten  thousand  who  do  not  — 
whose  acclaim,  indeed,  I  would  rather  not  have.  If  you  do 
not  feel  this  in  every  fibre  of  your  brain  and  heart,  try  to 
learn  to  feel  it  —  practice  feeling  it,  as  one  practices  some 
athletic  feat  necessary  to  health  and  strength. 

Thank  you  very  much  for  the  photograph.  You  are  grow- 


T'he  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          71 

ing  too  infernally  handsome  to  be  permitted  to  go  about 
unchained.  If  I  had  your  "advantages"  of  youth  and  come 
liness  I'd  go  to  the  sheriff  and  ask  him  to  lock  me  up.  That 
would  be  the  honorable  thing  for  you  to  do,  if  you  don't 
mind.  God  be  with  you  —  but  inattentive. 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
0t»40»**i 

DEAR  STERLING, 
I  fear  that  among  the  various  cares  incident  to  my  depar-  Aurora, 

-  TTT      i  •  T    c  i  i  1  i      Preston  Co., 

ture  from  Washington  I  forgot,  or  neglected,  to  acknowl-  West  Virginia, 
edge  the  Joaquin  Miller  book  that  you  kindly  sent  me.  I  August  15, 
was  glad  to  have  it.  It  has  all  his  characteristic  merits  and 
demerits— among  the  latter,  his  interminable  prolixity,  the 
thinness  of  the  thought,  his  endless  repetition  of  favorite 
words  and  phrases,  many  of  them  from  his  other  poems,  his 
mispronunciation,  his  occasional  flashes  of  prose,  and  so  forth. 

Scheff  tells  me  his  book  is  out  and  mine  nearly  out.  But 
what  of  yours  ?  I  do  fear  me  it  never  will  be  out  if  you  rely 
upon  its  "acceptance"  by  any  American  publisher.  If  it 
meets  with  no  favor  among  the  publisher  tribe  we  must 
nevertheless  get  it  out ;  and  you  will  of  course  let  me  do  what 
I  can.  That  is  only  tit  for  tat.  But  tell  me  about  it. 

I  dare  say  Scheff,  who  is  clever  at  getting  letters  out  of 
me  —  the  scamp!  —  has  told  you  of  my  being  up  here  atop 
of  the  Alleghenies,  and  why  I  am  here.  I'm  having  a  rather 
good  time.  *  *  *  Can  you  fancy  me  playing  croquet,  cards, 
lawn  —  no,  thank  God,  I've  escaped  lawn  tennis  and  golf! 
In  respect  of  other  things,  though,  I'm  a  glittering  speci 
men  of  the  Summer  Old  Man. 

Did  you  have  a  good  time  in  the  redwoods  ? 

Please  present  my  compliments  to  Madame  (and  Made 
moiselle)  Sterling.  Sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


72  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

Aurora,    DEAR  STERLING, 

West  Virginia,        T  .  .    .  , 

September  8,      1  return  the  verses  with  a  few  suggestions. 

I9°3'  I'm  sorry  your  time  for  poetry  is  so  brief.  But  take  your 
pencil  and  figure  out  how  much  you  would  write  in  thirty 
years  (I  hope  you'll  live  that  long)  at,  say,  six  lines  a  day. 
You'll  be  surprised  by  the  result  —  and  encouraged.  Re 
member  that  50,000  words  make  a  fairly  long  book. 

You  make  me  shudder  when  you  say  you  are  reading  the 
"Prattle"  of  years.  I  haven't  it  and  should  hardly  dare  to 
read  it  if  I  had.  There  is  so  much  in  it  to  deplore  —so  much 
that  is  not  wise  —  so  much  that  was  the  expression  of  a 
mood  or  a  whim  —  so  much  was  not  altogether  sincere  —  so 
many  half-truths,  and  so  forth.  Make  allowances,  I  beg, 
and  where  you  cannot,  just  forgive. 

Scheff  has  mentioned  his  great  desire  that  you  join  the 
Bohemian  Club.  I  know  he  wants  me  to  advise  you  to  do 
so.  So  I'm  between  two  fires  and  would  rather  not  advise 
at  all.  There  are  advantages  (obvious  enough)  in  belong 
ing;  and  to  one  of  your  age  and  well  grounded  in  sobriety 
and  self-restraint  generally,  the  disadvantages  are  not  so 
great  as  to  a  youngster  like  Scheff.  (Of  course  he  is  not  so 
young  as  he  seems  to  me;  but  he  is  younger  by  a  few  years 
and  a  whole  lot  of  thought  than  you.) 

The  trouble  with  that  kind  of  club  —  with  any  club  —  is 
the  temptation  to  waste  of  time  and  money;  and  the 
danger  of  the  drink  habit.  If  one  is  proof  against  these  a 
club  is  all  right.  I  belong  to  one  myself  in  Washington,  and 
at  one  time  came  pretty  near  to  "running"  it. 


•     running" 
*  *  * 


No,  I  don't  think  Scheff 's  view  of  Kipling  just.  He  asked 
me  about  putting  that  skit  in  the  book.  It  was  his  view  and, 
that  being  so,  I  could  see  no  reason  for  suppressing  it  in 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          73 

deference  to  those  who  do  not  hold  it.  I  like  free  speech, 
though  I'd  not  accord  it  to  my  enemies  if  I  were  Dictator. 
I  should  not  think  it  for  the  good  of  the  State  to  let  *  *  * 
write  verses,  for  example.  The  modern  fad  Tolerance  does 
not  charm  me,  but  since  it  is  all  the  go  I'm  willing  that  my 
friends  should  have  their  fling. 

I  dare  say  Scheff  is  unconscious  of  Kipling's  paternity  in 
the  fine  line  in  "Back,  back  to  Nature": 

"Loudly  to  the  shore  cries  the  surf  upon  the  sea." 

But  turn  to  "The  Last  Chanty,"  in  "The  Seven  Seas,"  fill 
your  ears  with  it  and  you'll  write  just  such  a  line  yourself. 

*  *  * 

God  be  decent  to  you,  old  man. 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
»to  *•»*•» 

DEAR  STERLING, 

3  Aurora, 

I  have  yours  of  the  5th.  Before  now  you  have  mine  of  West  Virginia, 
Delate.  *** 

I'm  glad  you  like  London;  I've  heard  he  is  a  fine  fellow 
and  have  read  one  of  his  books  —  "  The  Son  of  the  Wolf, "  I 
think  is  the  title  —  and  it  seemed  clever  work  mostly.  The 
general  impression  that  remains  with  me  is  that  it  is  always 
winter  and  always  night  in  Alaska. 

*  *  * 

*  *  *  will  probably  be  glad  to  sell  his  scrap-book  later,  to 
get  bread.  He  can't  make  a  living  out  of  the  labor  unions 
alone.  I  wish  he  were  not  a  demgagoue  and  would  not,  as 
poor  Doyle  put  it,  go  a-whoring  after  their  Muse.  When  he 
returns  to  truth  and  poetry  I'll  receive  him  back  into  favor 
and  he  may  kick  me  if  he  wants  to. 

No,  I  can't  tell  you  how  to  get  "Prattle";  if  I  could  I'd 


74          The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

not  be  without  it  myself.  You  ask  me  when  I  began  it  in  the 
"Examiner."  Soon  after  Hearst  got  the  paper  — I  don't 
know  the  date  —  they  can  tell  you  at  the  office  and  will 
show  you  the  bound  volumes. 

I  have  the  bound  volumes  of  the  "  Argonaut "  and"  Wasp ' ' 
during  the  years  when  I  was  connected  with  them,  but  my 
work  in  the  "Examiner"  (and  previously  in  the  "News 
Letter"  and  the  London  "Fun"  and  "Figaro"  and  other 
papers)  I  kept  only  in  a  haphazard  and  imperfect  way. 

I  don't  recollect  giving  Scheff  any  "epigram"  on  woman 
or  anything  else.  So  I  can't  send  it  to  you.  I  amuse  myself 
occasionally  with  that  sort  of  thing  in  the  "Journal" 
("American")  and  suppose  Hearst's  other  papers  copy 
them,  but  the  "environment"  is  uncongenial  and  uninspir 
ing. 

Do  I  think  extracts  from  "Prattle"  would  sell?  I  don't 
think  anything  of  mine  will  sell.  I  could  make  a  dozen 
books  of  the  stuff  that  I  have  "saved  up"  —  have  a  few 
ready  for  publication  now  —  but  all  is  vanity  so  far  as  pro 
fitable  publication  is  concerned.  Publishers  want  nothing 
from  me  but  novels  —  and  I'll  die  first. 

Who  is  *  *  *  —  and  why?  It  is  good  of  London  to  defend 
me  against  him.  I  fancy  all  you  fellows  have  a-plenty  of  de 
fending  me  to  do,  though  truly  it  is  hardly  worth  while.  All 
my  life  I  have  been  hated  and  slandered  by  all  manner  of 
persons  except  good  and  intelligent  ones;  and  I  don't  great 
ly  mind.  I  knew  in  the  beginning  what  I  had  to  expect,  and 
I  know  now  that,  like  spanking,  it  hurts  (sometimes)  but 
does  not  harm.  And  the  same  malevolence  that  has  sur 
rounded  my  life  will  surround  my  memory  if  I  am  remem 
bered.  Just  run  over  in  your  mind  the  names  of  men  who 
have  told  the  truth  about  their  unworthy  fellows  and  about 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          75 

human  nature  "as  it  was  given  them  to  see  it."  They  are 
the  bogie-men  of  history.  None  of  them  has  escaped  vili 
fication.  Can  poor  little  I  hope  for  anything  better?  When 
you  strike  you  are  struck.  The  world  is  a  skunk,  but  it  has 
rights;  among  them  that  of  retaliation.  Yes,  you  deceive 
yourself  if  you  think  the  little  fellows  of  letters  "like"  you, 
or  rather  if  you  think  they  will  like  you  when  they  know 
how  big  you  are.  They  will  lie  awake  nights  to  invent  new 
lies  about  you  and  new  means  of  spreading  them  without 
detection.  But  you  have  your  revenge:  in  a  few  years  they'll 
all  be  dead  —  just  the  same  as  if  you  had  killed  them.  Bet 
ter  yet,  you'll  be  dead  yourself.  So  —  you  have  my  entire 
philosophy  in  two  words:  "Nothing  matters." 

Reverting  to  Scheff.  What  he  has  to  fear  (if  he  cares)  is 
not  incompetent  criticism,  but  public  indifference.  That 
does  not  bite,  but  poets  are  an  ambitious  folk  and  like  the 
limelight  and  the  center  of  the  stage.  Maybe  Scheff  is  dif 
ferent,  as  I  know  you  are.  Try  to  make  him  so  if  he  isn't. 
*  *  *  Wise  poets  write  for  one  another.  If  the  public  hap 
pens  to  take  notice,  well  and  good.  Sometimes  it  does  — 
and  then  the  wise  poet  would  a  blacksmith  be.  But  this 
screed  is  becoming  an  essay. 

Please  give  my  love  to  all  good  Sterlings  —  those  by  birth 
and  those  by  marriage.  *  *  * 

My  friends  have  returned  to  Washington,  and  I'm  having 
great  times  climbing  peaks  (they  are  knobs)  and  exploring 
gulches  and  canons  —  for  which  these  people  have  no 
names  —  poor  things.  My  dreamland  is  still  unrevisited. 
They  found  a  Confederate  soldier  over  there  the  other  day, 
with  his  rifle  alongside.  I'm  going  over  to  beg  his  pardon. 

Ever  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


j6          'The  Letters  of  Ambrose  fierce 

Vashington,  D.  C.    M¥  DEAR  STERLING, 

October  12,  I  have  Jack  London's  books  —  the  one  from  you  and  the 
I9°3-l  one  from  him<  I  thank  you  and  shall  find  the  time  to  read 
them.  I've  been  back  but  a  few  days  and  find  a  brace  of 
dozen  of  books  "intitualed"  "Shapes  of  Clay."  That  the 
splendid  work  done  by  Scheff  and  Wood  and  your  other 
associates  in  your  labor  of  love  is  most  gratifying  to  me 
should  "go  without  saying."  Surely  /  am  most  fortunate 
in  having  so  good  friends  to  care  for  my  interests.  Still, 
there  will  be  an  aching  void  in  the  heart  of  me  until  your 
book  is  in  evidence.  Honest,  I  feel  more  satisfaction  in  the 
work  of  you  and  Scheff  than  in  my  own.  It  is  through  you 
two  that  I  expect  my  best  fame.  And  how  generously  you 
accord  it!  —  unlike  certain  others  of  my  "pupils,"  whom  I 
have  assisted  far  more  than  I  did  you. 

My  trip  through  the  mountains  has  done  my  health 
good  —  and  my  heart  too.  It  was  a  "sentimental  journey" 
in  a  different  sense  from  Sterne's.  Do  you  know,  George, 
the  charm  of  a  new  emotion  ?  Of  course  you  do,  but  at  my 
age  I  had  thought  it  impossible.  Well,  I  had  it  repeatedly. 
Bedad,  I  think  of  going  again  into  my  old  "theatre  of 
war,"  and  setting  up  a  cabin  there  and  living  the  few  days 
that  remain  to  me  in  meditation  and  sentimentalizing.  But 
I  should  like  you  to  be  near  enough  to  come  up  some  Satur 
day  night  with  some'at  to  drink.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
••»«•»'«*» 

Y.  Journal  Office,    MY  DEAR  STERLING, 

im October  ai|     I'm  indebted  to  you  for  two  letters  —  awfully  good  ones. 

1903-  In  the  last  you  tell  me  that  your  health  is  better,  and  I  can 

see  for  myself  that  your  spirits  are.  This  you  attribute  to 

exercise,  correctly,  no  doubt.  You  need  a  lot  of  the  open 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          77 

air  _  we  all  do.  I  can  give  myself  hypochondria  in  forty- 
eight  hours  by  staying  in-doors.  The  sedentary  life  and  ab 
stracted  contemplation  of  one's  own  navel  are  good  for 
Oriental  gods  only.  We  spirits  of  a  purer  fire  need  sunlight 
and  the  hills.  My  own  recent  wanderings  afoot  and  horse 
back  in  the  mountains  did  me  more  good  than  a  sermon. 
And  you  have  "the  hills  back  of  Oakland "!  God,  what 
would  I  not  give  to  help  you  range  them,  the  dear  old  things ! 
Why,  I  know  every  square  foot  of  them  from  Walnut  Creek 
to  Niles  Canon.  Of  course  they  swarm  with  ghosts,  as  do  all 
places  out  there,  even  the  streets  of  San  Francisco;  but  I 
and  my  ghosts  always  get  on  well  together.  With  the  female 
ones  my  relations  are  sometimes  a  bit  better  than  they  were 
with  the  dear  creatures  when  they  lived. 

I  guess  I  did  not  acknowledge  the  splendidly  bound 
"  Shapes  "  that  you  kindly  sent,  nor  the  Jack  London  books. 
Much  thanks. 

I'm  pleased  to  know  that  Wood  expects  to  sell  the  whole 
edition  of  my  book,  but  am  myself  not  confident  of  that. 

So  we  are  to  have  your  book  soon.  Good,  but  I  don't  like 
your  indifference  to  its  outward  and  visible  aspect.  Some 
of  my  own  books  have  offended,  and  continue  to  offend, 
in  that  way.  At  best  a  book  is  not  too  beautiful;  at  worst  it 
is  hideous.  Be  advised  a  bit  by  Scheff  in  this  matter;  his 
taste  seems  to  me  admirable  and  I'm  well  pleased  by  his 
work  on  the  "Shapes";  even  his  covers,  which  I'm  sorry  to 
learn  do  not  please  Wood,  appear  to  me  excellent.  I  ap 
proved  the  design  before  he  executed  it  —  in  fact  chose  it 
from  several  that  he  submitted.  Its  only  fault  seems  to  me 
too  much  gold  leaf,  but  that  is  a  fault  "on  the  right  side." 
In  that  and  all  the  rest  of  the  work  (except  my  own)  ex 
perts  here  are  delighted.  I  gave  him  an  absolutely  free  hand 


78  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

and  am  glad  I  did.  I  don't  like  the  ragged  leaves,  but  he 
does  not  either,  on  second  thought.  The  public  —  the  read 
ing  public  —  I  fear  does,  just  now. 

I'll  get  at  your  new  verses  in  a  few  days.  It  will  be,  as  al 
ways  it  is,  a  pleasure  to  go  over  them. 

About  "Prattle."  I  should  think  you  might  get  help  in 
that  matter  from  Oscar  T.  Schuck,  2916  Laguna  St.  He 
used  to  suffer  from  "Prattle"  a  good  deal,  but  is  very 
friendly,  and  the  obtaining  it  would  be  in  the  line  of  his 
present  business. 

How  did  you  happen  to  hit  on  Markham's  greatest  two 
lines  —  but  I  need  not  ask  that  — from  "The  Wharf  of 
Dreams"? 

Well,  I  wish  I  could  think  that  those  lines  of  mine  in 
"Geotheos"  were  worthy  to  be  mentioned  with  Keats 
"magic  casements"  and  Coleridge's  "woman  wailing  for 
her  demon  lover."  But  I  don't  think  any  lines  of  anybody 
are.  I  laugh  at  myself  to  remember  that  Geotheos,  never 
before  in  print  I  believe,  was  written  for  E.  L.  G.  Steele  to 
read  before  a  "young  ladies'  seminary"  somewhere  in  the 
cow  counties!  Like  a  man  of  sense  he  didn't  read  it.  I  don't 
share  your  regret  that  I  have  not  devoted  myself  to  serious 
poetry.  I  don't  think  of  myself  as  a  poet,  but  as  a  satirist; 
so  I'm  entitled  to  credit  for  what  little  gold  there  may  be 
in  the  mud  I  throw.  But  if  I  professed  gold-throwing,  the 
mud  which  I  should  surely  mix  with  the  missiles  would 
count  against  me.  Besides,  I've  a  preference  for  being  the 
first  man  in  a  village,  rather  than  the  second  man  in  Rome. 
Poetry  is  a  ladder  on  which  there  is  now  no  room  at  the 
top  —  unless  you  and  Scheff  throw  down  some  of  the  chaps 
occupying  the  upper  rung.  It  looks  as  if  you  might,  but  I 
could  not.  When  old  Homer,  Shakspeare  and  that  crowd  — 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          79 

building  better  than  Ozymandias  —  say:  "Look  on  my 
works,  ye  mighty,  and  despair!"  I,  considering  myself  spe 
cially  addressed,  despair.  The  challenge  of  the  wits  does 

not  alarm  me. 

*  *  * 

As  to  your  problems  in  grammar. 

If  you  say:  "There  is  no  hope  or  fear"  you  say  that  one 
of  them  does  not  exist.  In  saying:  "There  is  no  hope  nor 
fear"  you  say  that  both  do  not  exist  —  which  is  what  you 
mean. 

"Not  to  weary  you,  I  shall  say  that  I  fetched  the  book 
from  his  cabin."  Whether  that  is  preferable  to  "I  will  say" 
depends  on  just  what  is  meant;  both  are  grammatical.  The 
"shall"  merely  indicates  an  intention  to  say;  the  "will" 
implies  a  certain  shade  of  concession  in  saying  it. 

It  is  no  trouble  to  answer  such  questions,  nor  to  do  any 
thing  else  to  please  you.  I  only  hope  I  make  it  clear. 

I  don't  know  if  all  my  "Journal"  work  gets  into  the 
"Examiner,"  for  I  don't  see  all  the  issues  of  either  paper. 
I'm  not  writing  much  anyhow.  They  don't  seem  to  want 
much  from  me,  and  their  weekly  check  is  about  all  that  I 

want  from  them. 

*  *  * 

No,  I  don't  know  any  better  poem  of  Kipling  than  "The 
Last  Chanty. "  Did  you  see  what  stuff  of  his  Prof.  Harry 
Thurston  Peck,  the  Hearst  outfit's  special  literary  censor, 
chose  for  a  particular  commendation  the  other  day?  Yet 
Peck  is  a  scholar,  a  professor  of  Latin  and  a  writer  of  mer 
ited  distinction.  Excepting  the  ability  to  write  poetry,  the 
ability  to  understand  it  is,  I  think,  the  rarest  of  intellectual 
gifts.  Let  us  thank  "whatever  gods  may  be"  that  we  have 
it,  if  we  haven't  so  very  much  else. 


80          *Tbe  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

I've  a  lovely  birch  stick  a-seasoning  for  you  —  cut  it  up 
in  the  Alleghanies.  *  *  * 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
»•»  *•»«*» 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

°  1903!     I  return  the  verses  —  with  apology  for  tardiness.  IVe  been 
"full  up"  with  cares.          *  *  * 

I  would  not  change  "Religion"  to  "Dogma"  (if  I  were 
you)  for  all  "the  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard."  Once  you 
begin  to  make  concessions  to  the  feelings  of  this  person  or 
that  there  is  no  place  to  stop  and  you  may  as  well  hang  up 
the  lyre.  Besides,  Dogma  does  not  "seek";  it  just  impu 
dently  declares  something  to  have  been  found.  However, 
it  is  a  small  matter  —  nothing  can  destroy  the  excellence  of 
the  verses.  I  only  want  to  warn  you  against  yielding  to  a 
temptation  which  will  assail  you  all  your  life  —  the  tempta 
tion  to  "edit"  your  thought  for  somebody  whom  it  may 
pain.  Be  true  to  Truth  and  let  all  stand  from  under. 

Yes,  I  think  the  quatrain  that  you  wrote  in  Col.  Eng's 
book  good  enough  to  go  in  your  own.  But  I'd  keep  "dis 
cerning,"  instead  of  substituting  "revering."  In  art  dis 
cernment  carries  reverence. 

Of  course  I  expect  to  say  something  of  SchefFs  book,  but 
in  no  paper  with  which  I  have  a  present  connection  can  I 
regularly  "review"  it.  Hearst's  papers  would  give  it  in 
comparably  the  widest  publicity,  but  they  don't  want  "re 
views"  from  me.  They  have  Millard,  who  has  already  re 
viewed  it  —  right  well  too  —  and  Prof.  Peck  —  who  possibly 
might  review  it  if  it  were  sent  to  him.  "Prof.  Harry  Thurs- 
ton  Peck,  care  of 'The  American,'  New  York  City."  Men 
tion  it  to  Scheff.  I'm  trying  to  find  out  what  I  can  do. 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          8 1 

I'm  greatly  pleased  to  observe  your  ability  to  estimate 
the  relative  value  of  your  own  poems  —  a  rare  faculty.  "To 
Imagination"  is,  /  think,  the  best  of  all  your  short  ones. 

I'm  impatient  for  the  book.  It,  too,  I  shall  hope  to  write 
something  about.  Sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

&*>&<*£)*> 

DEAR  GEORGE, 
A  thousand  cares  have  prevented  my  writing  to  you  —  and  Navarre  Hotel  and 

r  *  *':'.••  Importation  Co., 

Scheff.  And  this  is  to  be  a     busy  day.     But  I  want  to  say  Seventh  Avenue 
that  I've  not  been  unmindful  of  your  kindness  in  sending  N^YO**'' 
the  book  —  which  has  hardly  left  my  pocket  since  I  got  it.  December  26, 
And  I've  read  nothing  in  it  more  than  once,  excepting  the 
"Testimony."  That  I've  studied,  line  by  line  —  and  "pre 
cept  by  precept" —finding  in  it  always  "something  rich 
and  strange."  It  is  greater  than  I  knew;  it  is  the  greatest 
"ever"! 

I'm  saying  a  few  words  about  it  in  tomorrow's  "Ameri 
can"  —  would  that  I  had  a  better  place  for  what  I  say  and 
more  freedom  of  saying.  But  they  don't  want,  and  won't 
have,  "book  reviews"  from  me;  probably  because  I  will 
not  undertake  to  assist  their  advertising  publishers.  So  I 
have  to  disguise  my  remarks  and  work  up  to  them  as  parts 
of  another  topic.  In  this  case  I  have  availed  myself  of  my 
favorite  "horrible  example,"  Jim  Riley,  who  ought  to  be 
proud  to  be  mentioned  on  the  same  page  with  you.  After 
all,  the  remarks  may  not  appear;  I  have  the  littlest  editor 
that  ever  blue-penciled  whatever  he  thought  particularly 

dear  to  the  writer.  I'm  here  for  only  a  few  days,  I  hope. 

*  *  * 

I  want  to  say  that  you  seem  to  me  greatest  when  you 
have  the  greatest  subject  — not  flowers,  women  and  all 
that,  —  but  something  above  the  flower- and- worn  an  belt  — 


82  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

something  that  you  see  from  altitudes  from  which  they  are  un 
seen  and  unsmelled.Your  poetry  is  incomparable  with  that 
of  our  other  poets,  but  your  thought,  philosophy,  —that  is 
greater  yet.  But  I'm  writing  this  at  a  desk  in  the  reading 
room  of  a  hotel;  when  I  get  home  I'll  write  you  again. 

I'm  concerned  about  your  health,  of  which  I  get  bad  re 
ports.  Can't  you  go  to  the  mesas  of  New  Mexico  and  round 
up  cattle  for  a  year  or  two  —  or  do  anything  that  will  per 
mit,  or  compel,  you  to  sleep  out-of-doors  under  your  fav 
orite  stars  —  something  that  will  not  permit  you  to  enter  a 
house  for  even  ten  minutes  ?  You  say  no.  Well,  some  day 
you'll  have  to  —  when  it  is  too  late  —  like  Peterson,  my 
friend  Charley  Kaufman  and  so  many  others,  who  might 
be  living  if  they  had  gone  into  that  country  in  time  and 
been  willing  to  make  the  sacrifice  when  it  would  have  done 
good.  You  can  go  now  as  well  as  then\  and  if  now  you'll 
come  back  well,  if  then,  you'll  not  only  sacrifice  your  salary, 
"prospects,"  and  so  forth,  but  lose  your  life  as  well.  I  know 
that  kind  of  life  would  cure  you.  I've  talked  with  dozens  of 
men  whom  it  did  cure. 

You'll  die  of  consumption  if  you  don't.  Twenty-odd  years 
ago  I  was  writing  articles  on  the  out-of-doors  treatment  for 
consumption.  Now  —  only  just  now  —  the  physicians  are 
doing  the  same,  and  establishing  out-of-door  sanitaria  for 
consumption. 

You'll  say  you  haven't  consumption.  I  don't  say  that  you 
have.  But  you  will  have  if  you  listen  to  yourself  saying:  "I 
can't  do  it."  *  *  * 

Pardon  me,  my  friend,  for  this  rough  advice  as  to  your 
personal  affairs :  I  am  greatly  concerned  about  you.  Your  life 
is  precious  to  me  and  to  the  world.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          83 

MY  DEAR  GEORGE, 

Thank  you  so  much  for  the  books  and  the  inscription  —  Washington,  D.  a, 
which  (as  do  all  other  words  of  praise)  affects  me  with  a  sad  1904. 
sense  of  my  shortcomings  as  writer  and  man.  Things  of 
that  kind  from  too  partial  friends  point  out  to  me  with  a 
disquieting  significance  what  I  ought  to  be;  and  the  con 
trast  with  what  I  am  hurts.  Maybe  you  feel  enough  that 
way  sometimes  to  understand.  You  are  still  young  enough 
to  profit  by  the  pain;  my  character  is  made  —  my  oppor 
tunities  are  gone.  But  it  does  not  greatly  matter  —  nothing 
does.  I  have  some  little  testimony  from  you  and  Scheff  and 
others  that  I  have  not  lived  altogether  in  vain,  and  I  know 
that  I  have  greater  satisfaction  in  my  slight  connection 
with  your  and  their  work  than  in  my  own.  Also  a  better 
claim  to  the  attention  and  consideration  of  my  fellow-men. 

Never  mind  about  the  "slow  sale"  of  my  book;  I  did  not 
expect  it  to  be  otherwise,  and  my  only  regret  grows  out  of 
the  fear  that  some  one  may  lose  money  by  the  venture.  // 
is  not  to  be  you.  You  know  I  am  still  a  little  "in  the  dark"  as 
to  what  you  have  really  done  in  the  matter.  I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  if  any  of  your  own  money  went  into  it.  The 
contract  with  Wood  is  all  right;  it  was  drawn  according  to 
my  instructions  and  I  shall  not  even  accept  the  small  roy 
alty  allowed  me  if  anybody  is  to  be  "out. "  If  you  are  to  be 
out  I  shall  not  only  not  accept  the  royalty,  but  shall  reim 
burse  you  to  the  last  cent.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  about 
all  that?  In  any  case  don't  "buy  out  Wood"  and  don't  pay 
out  anything  for  advertising  nor  for  anything  else. 

The  silence  of  the  reviewers  does  not  trouble  me,  any 
more  than  it  would  you.  Their  praise  of  my  other  books 
never,  apparently,  did  me  any  good.  No  book  published  in  \ 
this  country  ever  received  higher  praise  from  higher  sources  \ 


84          The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

than  my  first  collection  of  yarns.  But  the  book  was  never  a 
"seller,"  and  doubtless  never  will  be.  That  /  like  it  fairly 
well  is  enough.  You  and  I  do  not  write  books  to  sell;  we 
write  —  or  rather  publish  —just  because  we  like  to.  We've 
no  right  to  expect  a  profit  from  fun. 

It  is  odd  and  amusing  that  you  could  have  supposed  that 
I  had  any  other  reason  for  not  writing  to  you  than  a  fixed 
habit  of  procrastination,  some  preoccupation  with  my 
small  affairs  and  a  very  burdensome  correspondence.  Prob 
ably  you  could  give  me  a  grievance  by  trying  hard,  but  if 
you  ever  are  conscious  of  not  having  tried  you  may  be  sure 
that  I  haven't  the  grievance. 

I  should  have  supposed  that  the  author  of  "Viverols" 
and  several  excellent  monographs  on  fish  would  have  un 
derstood  your  poems.  (O  no;  I  don't  mean  that  your  Muse 
is  a  mermaid.)  Perhaps  he  did,  but  you  know  how  temper 
ate  of  words  men  of  science  are  by  habit.  Did  you  send  a 
book  to  Garrett  Serviss?  I  should  like  to  know  what  he 
thinks  of  the  "Testimony."  As  to  Joaquin,  it  is  his  detest 
able  habit,  as  it  was  Longfellow's,  to  praise  all  poetry  sub 
mitted  to  him,  and  he  said  of  Madge  Morris's  coyote  poem 
the  identical  thing  that  he  says  of  your  work.  Sorry  to  dis 
illusionize  you,  but  it  is  so. 

As  to  your  health.  You  give  me  great  comfort.*  *  *  But  it 
was  not  only  from  Scheff  that  I  had  bad  accounts  of  you  and 
"your  cough."  Scheff,  indeed,  has  been  reticent  in  the 
matter,  but  evidently  anxious;  and  you  yourself  have 
written  despondently  and  "forecasted"  an  early  passing 
away.  If  nothing  is  the  matter  with  you  and  your  lungs 
some  of  your  friends  are  poor  observers.  I'm  happy  to  have 
your  testimony,  and  beg  to  withdraw  my  project  for  your  re 
covery.  You  whet  my  appetite  for  that  new  poem. The  lines 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          85 

"The  blue-eyed  vampire,  sated  at  her  feast, 
Smiles  bloodily  against  the  leprous  moon" 

give  me  the  shivers.  Gee !  they're  awful !  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


DEAR  GEORGE, 

*  *  * 

You  should  not  be  irritated  by  the  "conspiracy  of  silence"  ^8^"gton' D'  c" 
about  me  on  the  part  of  the  "Call,"  the  "Argonaut"  and  1904. 
other  papers.  Really  my  enemies  are  under  no  obligation  to 
return  good  for  evil;  I  fear  I  should  not  respect  them  if  they 
did.  *  *  *,  his  head  still  sore  from  my  many  beatings  of 
that  "distracted  globe,"  would  be  a  comic  figure  stammer 
ing  his  sense  of  my  merit  and  directing  attention  to  the  ex 
cellence  of  the  literary  wares  on  my  shelf. 

As  to  the  pig  of  a  public,  its  indifference  to  a  diet  of  pearls  — 
our  pearls  —  was  not  unknown  to  me,  and  truly  it  does  not 
trouble  me  anywhere  except  in  the  pocket.  That  pig,  too,  is 
not  much  beholden  to  me,  who  have  pounded  the  snout  of 
it  all  my  life.  Why  should  it  assist  in  the  rite?  Its  indif 
ference  to  your  work  constitutes  a  new  provocation  and 
calls  for  added  whacks,  but  not  its  indifference  to  mine. 

The  Ashton  Stevens  interview  was  charming.  His  finding 
you  and  Scheff  together  seems  too  idyllic  to  be  true  —  I 
thought  it  a  fake.  He  put  in  quite  enough  —  too  much  — 
about  me.  As  to  Joaquin's  hack  at  me  —  why,  that  was 
magnanimity  itself  in  one  who,  like  most  of  us,  does  not 
offset  blame  against  praise,  subtract  the  latter  from  the 
former  and  find  matter  for  thanks  in  the  remainder.  You 
know  "what  fools  we  mortals  be";  criticism  that  is  not  all 
honey  is  all  vinegar.  Nobody  has  more  delighted  than  I  in 
pointing  out  the  greatness  of  Joaquin's  great  work ;  but  no- 


86  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

body  than  I  has  more  austerely  condemned  *  *  *,  his  van 
ity  and  the  general  humbugery  that  makes  his  prose  so  in 
supportable.  Joaquin  is  a  good  fellow,  all  the  same,  and  you 
should  not  demand  of  him  impossible  virtues  and  a  reach  of 
reasonableness  that  is  alien  to  him. 

*  *  * 

I  have  the  books  you  kindly  sent  and  have  planted  two  or 
three  in  what  I  think  fertile  soil  which  I  hope  will  produce  a 
small  crop  of  appreciation. 

*  *  * 

And  the  poem  !*  I  hardly  know  how  to  speak  of  it.  No 
poem  in  English  of  equal  length  has  so  bewildering  a  wealth 
of  imagination.  Not  Spenser  himself  has  flung  such  a  pro 
fusion  of  jewels  into  so  small  a  casket.  Why,  man,  it  takes 
away  the  breath!  IVe  read  and  reread  —  read  it  for  the  ex 
pression  and  read  it  for  the  thought  (always  when  I  speak 
of  the  "thought"  in  your  work  I  mean  the  meaning  — 
which  is  another  thing)  and  I  shall  read  it  many  times  more. 
And  pretty  soon  I'll  get  at  it  with  my  red  ink  and  see  if  I 
can  suggest  anything  worth  your  attention.  I  fear  not. 


*  *  * 


Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


"New  York    DEAR  GEORGE, 

^office,     I  wrote  you  yesterday.  Since  then  I  have  been  rereading 
Vashington,  D.  c.,  vour  letter.  I  wish  you  would  not  say  so  much  about  what  I 

February  29,    £  '  * 

1904.  have  done  for  you,  and  how  much  it  was  worth  to  you,  and 
all  that.  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that  I  did  not  do  a  little 
for  you  —  I  tried  to.  But,  my  boy,  you  should  know  that  I 
don't  keep  that  kind  of  service  on  sale.  Moreover,  I'm 

*"  A  Wine  of  Wizardry." 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          87 

amply  repaid  by  what  you  have  done  for  me  —  I  mean  with 
your  pen.  Do  you  suppose  /  do  not  value  such  things? 
Does  it  seem  reasonable  to  think  me  unpleasured  by  those 
magnificent  dedicatory  verses  in  your  book?  Is  it  nothing 
to  me  to  be  called  "Master"  by  such  as  you?  Is  my  nature 
so  cold  that  I  have  no  pride  in  such  a  pupil?  There  is  no 
obligation  in  the  matter  —  certainly  none  that  can  be  suf 
fered  to  satisfy  itself  out  of  your  pocket. 

You  greatly  overestimate  the  sums  I  spend  in  "charity. " 
I  sometimes  help  some  poor  devil  of  an  unfortunate  over 
the  rough  places,  but  not  to  the  extent  that  you  seem  to 
suppose.  I  couldn't  —  I've  too  many  regular,  constant, 
legitimate  demands  on  me.  Those,  mostly,  are  what  keep 
me  poor. 


*  * 


Maybe  you  think  it  odd  that  I've  not  said  a  word  in  print 
about  any  of  your  work  except  the  "Testimony."  It  is  not 
that  I  don't  appreciate  the  minor  poems  —  I  do.  But  I  don't 
like  to  scatter;  I  prefer  to  hammer  on  a  single  nail  —  to 
push  one  button  until  someone  hears  the  bell.  When  the 
"Wine"  is  published  I'll  have  another  poem  that  is  not 
only  great,  but  striking  —  notable  —  to  work  on.  However 
good,  or  even  great,  a  short  poem  with  such  a  title  as 
"  Poesy, "  "  Music, "  "  To  a  Lily, "  "A  White  Rose, "  and  so 
forth,  cannot  be  got  into  public  attention.  Some  longer  and 
more  notable  work,  of  the  grander  manner,  may  carry  it, 
but  of  itself  it  will  not  go.  Even  a  bookful  of  its  kind  will 
not.  Not  till  you're  famous. 

Your  letter  regarding  your  brother  (who  has  not  turned 
up)  was  needless  —  I  could  be  of  no  assistance  in  procuring 
him  employment.  I've  tried  so  often  to  procure  it  for  others, 
and  so  vainly,  that  nobody  could  persuade  me  to  try  any 


88  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

more.  I'm  not  fond  of  the  character  of  suppliant,  nor  of 
being  "turned  down"  by  the  little  men  who  run  this  Gov 
ernment.  Of  course  I'm  not  in  favor  with  this  Administra 
tion,  not  only  because  of  my  connection  with  Democratic 
newspapers,  but  because,  also,  I  sometimes  venture  to  dis 
sent  openly  from  the  doctrine  of  the  divinity  of  those  in 
high  station  —  particularly  Teddy. 

I'm  sorry  you  find  your  place  in  the  office  intolerable. 
That  is  "the  common  lot  of  all"  who  work  for  others.  I 
have  chafed  under  the  yoke  for  many  years  —  a  heavier 
yoke,  I  think,  than  yours.  It  does  not  fit  my  neck  anywhere. 
Some  day  perhaps  you  and  I  will  live  on  adjoining  ranches 
in  the  mountains  —  or  in  adjoining  caves  —  "the  world  for 
getting,  by  the  world  forgot."  I  have  really  been  on  the 
point  of  hermitizing  lately,  but  I  guess  I'll  have  to  continue 
to  live  like  a  reasonable  human  being  a  little  longer  until  I 
can  release  myself  with  a  conscience  void  of  offense  to  my 
creditors  and  dependents.  But  "the  call  of  the  wild" 
sounds,  even  in  my  dreams. 

You  ask  me  if  you  should  write  in  "A  Wine  of  Wizardry  " 
vein,  or  in  that  of  "The  Testimony  of  the  Suns."  Both.  I 
don't  know  in  which  you  have  succeeded  the  better.  And  I 
don't  know  anyone  who  has  succeeded  better  in  either.  To 
succeed  in  both  is  a  marvelous  performance.  You  may  say 
that  the  one  is  fancy,  the  other  imagination,  which  is  true, 
but  not  the  whole  truth.  The  "Wine"  has  as  true  imagina 
tion  as  the  other,  and  fancy  into  the  bargain.  I  like  your 
grandiose  manner,  and  I  like  the  other  as  well.  In  terms  of 
another  art  I  may  say  —  rear  great  towers  and  domes. 
Carve,  also,  friezes.  But  I'd  not  bother  to  cut  single  finials 
and  small  decorations.  However  exquisite  the  workman 
ship,  they  are  not  worth  your  present  attention.  If  you 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          89 

were  a  painter  (as,  considering  your  wonderful  sense  of 
color,  you  doubtless  could  have  been)  your  large  canvases 
would  be  your  best.  *  *  * 

I  don't  care  if  that  satire  of  Josephare  refers  to  me  or  not; 
it  was  good.  He  may  jump  on  me  if  he  wants  to  —  I  don't 
mind.  All  I  ask  is  that  he  do  it  well. 

*  *  * 

I  passed  yesterday  with  Percival  Pollard,  viewing  the 
burnt  district  of  Baltimore.  He's  a  queer  duck  whom  I  like, 
and  he  likes  your  work.  I'm  sending  you  a  copy  of  "The 
Papyrus,"  with  his  "rehabilitation"  of  the  odious  Oscar 
Wilde.  Wilde's  work  is  all  right,  but  what  can  one  do  with 
the  work  of  one  whose  name  one  cannot  speak  before 


women 


*  *  * 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


DEAR  GEORGE, 

The  "  belatedness"  of  your  letter  only  made  me  fear  that  Washington,  D.  c, 
/  had  offended  you.  Odd  that  we  should  have  such  views  of  ^4.  *9' 
each  other's  sensitiveness. 

About  Wood.  No  doubt  that  he  is  doing  all  that  he  can, 
but  —  well,  he  is  not  a  publisher.  For  example:  He  sent 
forty  or  fifty  "Shapes"  here.  They  lie  behind  a  counter  at 
the  bookseller's  —  not  even  on  the  counter.  There  are  prob 
ably  not  a  dozen  persons  of  my  acquaintance  in  Washing 
ton  who  know  that  I  ever  wrote  a  book.  Now  how  are  even 
these  to  know  about  that  book  ?  The  bookseller  does  not  ad 
vertise  the  books  he  has  on  sale  and  the  public  does  not  go 
rummaging  behind  his  counters.  A  publisher's  methods  are 
a  bit  different,  naturally. 


90          *fhe  Letters  of  Ambrose  fierce 

Only  for  your  interest  I  should  not  care  if  my  books  sold 
or  not;  they  exist  and  will  not  be  destroyed;  every  book  will 
eventually  get  to  somebody. 

*  *  * 

It  seems  to  be  a  matter  for  you  to  determine  —  whether 
Wood  continues  to  try  to  sell  the  book  or  it  is  put  in  other 
hands  if  he  is  ever  tired  of  it.  Remember,  I  don't  care  a  rap 
what  happens  to  the  book  except  as  a  means  of  reimbursing 
you;  I  want  no  money  and  I  want  no  glory.  If  you  and 
Wood  can  agree,  do  in  all  things  as  you  please. 

I  return  Wood's  letters;  they  show  what  I  knew  before: 
that  the  public  and  the  librarians  would  not  buy  that  book. 
Let  us  discuss  this  matter  no  more,  but  at  some  time  in 
the  future  you  tell  me  how  much  you  are  out  of  pocket. 

Tour  book  shows  that  a  fellow  can  get  a  good  deal  of  glory 
with  very  little  profit.  You  are  now  famous  —  at  least  on 
the  Pacific  Coast;  but  I  fancy  you  are  not  any  "for'arder" 
in  the  matter  of  wealth  than  you  were  before.  I  too  have 
some  reputation— a  little  wider,  as  yet,  than  yours. Well,  my 
work  sells  tremendously  —  in  Mr.  Hearst's  newspapers,  at 
the  price  of  a  small  fraction  of  one  cent!  Offered  by  itself, in 
one-dollar  and  two-dollar  lots,  it  tempts  nobody  to  fall  over 
his  own  feet  in  the  rush  to  buy.  A  great  trade,  this  of  ours ! 

I  note  with  interest  the  "notices"  you  send.  The  one  by 
Monahan  is  amusing  with  its  gabble  about  your  "science. " 
To  most  men,  as  to  him,  a  mention  of  the  stars  suggests 
astronomy,  with  its  telescopes,  spectroscopes  and  so  forth. 
Therefore  it  is  "scientific."  To  tell  such  men  that  there  is 
nothing  of  science  in  your  poem  would  puzzle  them  greatly. 

I  don't  think  poor  Lang  meant  to  do  anything  but  his 
best  and  honestest.  He  is  a  rather  clever  and  rather  small 
fellow  and  not  to  be  blamed  for  the  limitations  of  his  in- 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          91 

sight.  I  have  repeatedly  pointed  out  in  print  that  it  requires 
genius  to  discern  genius  at  first  hand.  Lang  has  written 
almost  the  best,  if  not  quite  the  best,  sonnet  in  the  lan 
guage  —  yet  he  is  no  genius. 

*  *  * 

Why,  of  course  —  why  should  you  not  help  the  poor  devil, 
*  *  *;  I  used  to  help  him  myself—  introduced  him  to  the 
public  and  labored  to  instruct  him.  Then  —  but  it  is  un 
speakable  and  so  is  he.  He  will  bite  your  hand  if  you  feed 

him,  but  I  think  I'd  throw  a  crust  to  him  myself. 

*  *  * 

No,  I  don't  agree  with  you  about  Homer,  nor  "stand  for" 
your  implied  view  that  narrative  poetry  is  not  "pure 
poetry."  Poetry  seems  to  me  to  speak  with  a  thousand 
voices  —  "a  various  language."  The  miners  have  a  saying: 
"Gold  is  where  you  find  it. "  So  is  poetry;  I'm  expecting  to 
find  it  some  fine  day  in  the  price  list  of  a  grocery  store.  I 
fancy  you  could  put  it  there. 

*  *  * 

As  to  Goethe,  the  more  you  read  him,  the  better  you 
will  love  Heine. 

Thank  you  for  "A  Wine  of  Wizardry"  —  amended.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  fake  dictum  of  "Merlin-sage"  (I  don't 
quite  perceive  the  necessity  of  the  hyphen)  is  better  than 
the  hackneyed  Scriptural  quotation.  It  is  odd,  but  my 
recollection  is  that  it  was  the  "sick  enchantress"  who  cried 
"  unto  Betelgeuse  a  mystic  word. "  Was  it  not  so  in  the  copy 
that  I  first  had,  or  do  I  think,  so  merely  because  the  cry  of 
one  is  more  lone  and  awful  than  the  cry  of  a  number? 

I  am  still  of  the  belief  that  the  poem  should  have  at  least 
a  few  breaks  in  it,  for  I  find  myself  as  well  as  the  public 
more  or  less  —  I,  doubtless,  less  than  the  public  —  indis- 


92  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

posed  to  tackle  solid  columns  of  either  verse  or  prose.  I  told 
you  this  poem  "took  away  one's  breath,"  —  give  a  fellow, 
can't  you,  a  chance  to  recover  it  now  and  again. 

"  Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever." 

Nevertheless,  not  my  will  but  thine  be  done,  on  earth  as  it 
is  in  San  Francisco.  Sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

^904!  To  begin  at  the  beginning,  I  shall  of  course  be  pleased  to 
meet  Josephare  if  he  come  this  way;  if  only  to  try  to  solve 
the  problem  of  what  is  in  a  fellow  who  started  so  badly  and 
in  so  short  a  time  was  running  well,  with  a  prospect  of 
winning  "a  place."  Byron,  you  know,  was  the  same  way 
and  Tennyson  not  so  different.  Still  their  start  was  not  so 
bad  as  Josephare's.  I  freely  confess  that  I  thought  him  a 

fool.  It  is  "one  on  me." 

*  *  * 

I  wonder  if  a  London  house  would  publish  "Shapes  of 
Clay."  Occasionally  a  little  discussion  about  me  breaks  out 
in  the  London  press,  blazes  up  for  a  little  while  and  "goes 
up  in  smoke.  "  I  enclose  some  evidences  of  the  latest  one  — 
which  you  may  return  if  you  remember  to  do  so.  The  letter 
of  "a  deeply  disappointed  man"  was  one  of  rollicking 
humor  suggested  by  some  articles  of  Barr  about  me  and  a 
private  intimation  from  him  that  I  should  publish  some 
more  books  in  London. 

Yes,  I've  dropped  "The  Passing  Show"  again,  for  the 
same  old  reason  —  wouldn't  stand  the  censorship  of  my 
editor.  I'm  writing  for  the  daily  issues  of  The  American, 
mainly,  and,  as  a  rule,  anonymously.  It's  "dead  easy" 
work.  *  *  * 


'The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          93 

It  is  all  right  —  that  "cry  unto  Betelgeuse";  the  "sick  en 
chantress"  passage  is  good  enough  without  it.  I  like  the 
added  lines  of  the  poem.  Here's  another  criticism:  The 
"Without"  and  "Within,"  beginning  the  first  and  third 
lines,  respectively,  seem  to  be  antithetic,  when  they  are  not, 
the  latter  having  the  sense  of  "into,"  which  I  think  might, 
for  clearness,  be  substituted  for  it  without  a  displeasing 
break  of  the  metre  —  a  trochee  for  an  iambus. 

Why  should  I  not  try  "The  Atlantic"  with  this  poem?  — 
if  you  have  not  already  done  so.  I  could  write  a  brief  note 
about  it,  saying  what  you  could  not  say,  and  possibly  win 
ning  attention  to  the  work.  If  you  say  so  I  will.  It  is  impos 
sible  to  imagine  a  magazine  editor  rejecting  that  amazing 
poem.  I  have  read  it  at  least  twenty  times  with  ever  in 
creasing  admiration. 

Your  book,  by  the  way,  is  still  my  constant  companion  — 
I  carry  it  in  my  pocket  and  read  it  over  and  over,  in  the 
street  cars  and  everywhere.  All  the  poems  are  good,  though 
the  "Testimony"  and  "Memorial  Day"  are  supreme  —the 
one  in  grandeur,  the  other  in  feeling. 

I  send  you  a  criticism  in  a  manuscript  letter  from  a  friend 
who  complains  of  your  "obscurity,"  as  many  have  the  can 
dor  to  do.  It  requires  candor  to  do  that,  for  the  fault  is  in 
the  critic's  understanding.  Still, one  who  understands  Shak- 
speare  and  Milton  is  not  without  standing  as  a  complain 
ing  witness  in  the  court  of  literature. 


*  *  * 


My  favorite  translation  of  Homer  is  that  of  Pope,  of 
whom  it  is  the  present  fashion  to  speak  disparagingly,  as  it 
is  of  Byron.  I  know  all  that  can  be  said  against  them,  and 
say  some  of  it  myself,  but  I  wish  their  detractors  had  a  little 
of  their  brains.  I  know  too  that  Pope's  translations  of  The 


94  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

Iliad  and  The  Odyssey  are  rather  paraphrases  than  trans 
lations.  But  I  love  them  just  the  same,  while  wondering 
(with  you,  doubtless)  what  so  profoundly  affected  Keats 
when  he  "  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold. "  What 
ever  it  was,  it  gave  us  what  Coleridge  pronounced  the  best 
sonnet  in  our  language;  and  Lang's  admiration  of  Homer 
has  given  us  at  least  the  next  best.  Of  course  there  must  be 
something  in  poems  that  produce  poems  —  in  a  poet  whom 
most  poets  confess  their  king.  I  hold  (with  Poe)  that  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  a  long  poem  —  a  poem  of  the  length  of  an 
Epic.  It  must  consist  of  poetic  passages  connected  by  reci- 
tativo,  to  use  an  opera  word;  but  it  is  perhaps  better  for  that. 
If  the  writer  cannot  write  "sustained"  poetry  the  reader 
probably  could  not  read  it.  Anyhow,  I  vote  for  Homer. 

I  am  passing  well,  but  shall  soon  seek  the  mountains, 
though  I  hope  to  be  here  when  Scheff  points  his  prow  this 
way.  Would  that  you  were  sailing  with  him! 

I've  been  hearing  all  about  all  of  you,  for  Eva  Crawford 
has  been  among  you  "takin'  notes,"  and  Eva's  piquant 
comments  on  what  and  whom  she  sees  are  delicious  read 
ing.  I  should  suppose  that  you  would  appreciate  Eva  — 
most  persons  don't.  She  is  the  best  letter  writer  of  her  sex  — 
who  are  all  good  letter  writers  —  and  she  is  much  beside.  I 
may  venture  to  whisper  that  you'd  find  her  estimate  of 
your  work  and  personality  "not  altogether  displeasing/' 

Now  that  I'm  about  such  matters,  I  shall  enclose  a  note 
to  my  friend  Dr.  Robertson,  who  runs  an  insanery  at  Liver- 
more  and  is  an  interesting  fellow  with  a  ditto  family  and  a 
library  that  will  make  you  pea-green  with  envy.  Go  out 
and  see  him  some  day  and  take  Scheff,  or  any  friend,  along  — 
he  wants  to  know  you.  You  won't  mind  the  facts  that  he 
thinks  all  poetry  the  secretion  of  a  diseased  brain,  and  that 


T'he  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce          95 

the  only  reason  he  doesn't  think  all  brains  (except  his  own) 
diseased  is  the  circumstance  that  not  all  secrete  poetry. 


*  *  * 


Seriously,  he  is  a  good  fellow  and  full  of  various  knowl 
edges  that  most  of  us  wot  not  of. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
£*•  £«*  £«* 
MY  DEAR  GEORGE, 

I  have  a  letter  from  *  *  *,  who  is  in  St.  Louis,  to  which  Washington,  D.  c. 
his  progress  has  been  more  leisurely  than  I  liked,  consider-  i904. 
ing  that  I  am  remaining  away  from  my  mountains  only  to 
meet  him.  However,,  he  intimates  an  intention  to  come  in  a 
week.  I  wish  you  were  with  him. 

I  am  sending  the  W.  of  W.  to  Scribner's,  as  you  suggest, 
and  if  it  is  not  taken  shall  try  the  other  mags  in  the  order 
of  your  preference.  But  it's  funny  that  you  —  you  —  should 
prefer  the  "popular"  magazines  and  wish  the  work  "illus 
trated.  "  Be  assured  the  illustrations  will  shock  you  if  you 

get  them. 

*  *  * 

I  understand  what  you  say  about  being  bored  by  the  per 
sons  whom  your  work  in  letters  brings  about  your  feet. 
The  most  contented  years  of  my  life  lately  were  the  two  or 
three  that  I  passed  here  before  Washington  folk  found  out 
that  I  was  an  author.  The  fact  has  leaked  out,  and  although 
not  a  soul  of  them  buys  and  reads  my  books  some  of  them 
bore  me  insupportably  with  their  ignorant  compliments 
and  unwelcome  attentions.  I  fancy  I'll  have  to  "move  on. " 

Tell  Maid  Marian  to  use  gloves  when  modeling,  or  the 
clay  will  enter  into  her  soul  through  her  fingers  and  she 
become  herself  a  Shape  of  Clay.  My  notion  is  that  she 


9  6  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

should  work  in  a  paste  made  of  ashes-of-roses  moistened 

with  nectar. 

*  *  * 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

P.  S.  Does  it  bore  you  that  I  like  you  to  know  my  friends  ? 
Professor  *  *  *'s  widow  (and  daughter)  are  very  dear  to 
me.  She  knows  about  you,  and  I've  written  her  that  I'd  ask 
you  to  call  on  her.  You'll  like  them  all  right,  but  I  have 
another  purpose.  I  want  to  know  how  they  prosper;  and 
they  are  a  little  reticent  about  that.  Maybe  you  could  as 
certain  indirectly  by  seeing  how  they  live.  I  asked  Grizzly 
to  do  this  but  of  course  he  didn't,  the  shaggy  brute  that 
he  is.  A.  B. 

&*•  £•»  && 

Haines' Falls,:  DEAR  GEORGE, 

Greene  Co.,  N.  Y.,  i  . J  .  . 

August  4j:    I  haven  t  written  a  letter,  except  on  business,  since  leav- 
I9°4*  ing  Washington,  June  30  — no,  not  since  Scheff's  arrival 
there.  I  now  return  to  earth,  and  my  first  call  is  on  you. 

You'll  be  glad  to  know  that  I'm  having  a  good  time  here 
in  the  Catskills.  I  shall  not  go  back  so  long  as  I  can  find  an 
open  hotel. 


*  *  * 


I  should  like  to  hear  from  you  about  our  —  or  rather 
your  —  set  in  California,  and  especially  about  you.  Do  you 
still  dally  with  the  Muse?  Enclosed  you  will  find  two  damn 
ing  evidences  of  additional  incapacity.  Harper  s  now  have 
"A  Wine  of  Wizardry,"  and  triey  too  will  indubitably  turn 
it  down.  I  shall  then  try  'The  Atlantic,  where  it  should  have 
gone  in  the  first  place;  and  I  almost  expect  its  acceptance. 

I'm  not  working  much— just  loafing  on  my  cottage 
porch;  mixing  an  occasional  cocktail;  infesting  the  forests, 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          97 

knife  in  hand,  in  pursuit  of  the  yellow-birch  sapling  that 
furnishes  forth  the  walking  stick  like  yours;  and  so  forth.  I 
knocked  off  work  altogether  for  a  month  when  Scheff  came, 
and  should  like  to  do  so  for  you.  Are  you  never  going  to 
visit  the  scenes  of  your  youth? 

*  *  * 

It  is  awfully  sad  —  that  latest  visit  of  Death  to  the  heart 
and  home  of  poor  Katie  Peterson.  Will  you  kindly  assure 
her  of  my  sympathy? 

Love  to  all  the  Piedmontese.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


MY  DEAR  GEORGE, 

First,  thank  you  for  the  knife  and  the  distinction  of  mem-  Hames'  Fails, 
bership  in  the  Ancient  and  Honorable  Order  of  Knifers.  I 
have  made  little  use  of  the  blades  and  other  appliances,  but 
the  corkscrew  is  in  constant  use. 

I'm  enclosing  a  little  missive  from  the  editor  of  Harper's. 
Please  reserve  these  things  awhile  and  sometime  I  may  ask 
them  of  you  to  "point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale"  about  that 
poem.  If  we  can't  get  it  published  I'd  like  to  write  for  some 
friendly  periodical  a  review  of  an  unpublished  poem,  with 
copious  extracts  and  a  brief  history  of  it.  I  think  that  would 
be  unique. 

I  find  the  pictures  of  Marian  interesting,  but  have  the  self- 
denial  to  keep  only  one  of  them—  the  prettiest  one  of  course. 
Your  own  is  rather  solemn,  but  it  will  do  for  the  title  page 
of  the  Testimony,  which  is  still  my  favorite  reading. 

Scheff  showed  me  your  verses  on  Katie's  baby,  and  Katie 
has  since  sent  them.  They  are  very  tender  and  beautiful.  I 
would  not  willingly  spare  any  of  your  "personal"  poems  — 
least  of  all,  naturally,  the  one  personal  to  me.  Your  success 


9  8  The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

with  them  is  exceptional.  Yet  the  habit  of  writing  them  is 
perilous,  as  the  many  failures  of  great  poets  attest  —  Mil 
ton,  for  example,  in  his  lines  to  Syriack  Skinner,  his  lines 
to  a  baby  that  died  a-bornin'  and  so  forth.  The  reason  is 
obvious,  and  you  have  yourself,  with  sure  ringer,  pointed 

it  out: 

"  Remiss  the  ministry  they  bear 

Who  serve  her  with  divided  heart; 
She  stands  reluctant  to  impart 
Her  strength  to  purpose,  end,  or  care." 

When  one  is  intent  upon  pleasing  some  mortal,  one  is  less 
intent  upon  pleasing  the  immortal  Muse.  All  this  is  said 
only  by  way  of  admonition  for  the  future,  not  in  criticism 
of  the  past.  I'm  a  sinner  myself  in  that  way,  but  then  I'm 
not  a  saint  in  any  way,  so  my  example  doesn't  count. 

I  don't  mind  *  *  *  calling  me  a  "  dignified  old  gentleman  " — 
indeed,  that  is  what  I  have  long  aspired  to  be,  but  have 
succeeded  only  in  the  presence  of  strangers,  and  not  always 
then.  *  *  * 

(I  forgot  to  say  that  your  poem  is  now  in  the  hands  of  the 
editor  of  the  Atlantic.) 

Your  determination  to  "boom"  me  almost  frightens  me. 
Great  Scott!  you've  no  notion  of  the  magnitude  of  the  task 
you  undertake;  the  labors  of  Hercules  were  as  nothing  to 
it.  Seriously,  don't  make  any  enemies  that  way;  it  is  not 
worth  while.  And  you  don't  know  how  comfortable  I  am  in 
my  obscurity.  It  is  like  being  in  "the  shadow  of  a  great 
rock  in  a  weary  land." 

How  goes  the  no  sale  of  Shapes  of  Clay?  I  am  slowly  sav 
ing  up  a  bit  of  money  to  recoup  your  friendly  outlay. 
That's  a  new  thing  for  me  to  do  —  the  saving,  I  mean  — 
and  I  rather  enjoy  the  sensation.  If  it  results  in  making  a 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce          99 

miser  of  me  you  will  have  to  answer  for  it  to  many  a 
worthy  complainant. 

Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan!  —  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to 
go  to  California  yet.  For  one  thing,  my  health  is  better  here 
in  the  East;  I  have  utterly  escaped  asthma  this  summer, 
and  summer  is  my  only  "sickly  season"  here.  In  California 
I  had  the  thing  at  any  time  o'  year  —  even  at  Wright's. 
But  it  is  my  hope  to  end  my  days  out  there. 

I  don't  think  Millard  was  too  hard  on  Kipling;  it  was  no 
"unconscious"  plagiarism;  just  a  "straight  steal." 

About  Prentice  Mulford.  I  knew  him  but  slightly  and 
used  to  make  mild  fun  of  him  as  "Dismal  Jimmy."  That 
expressed  my  notion  of  his  character  and  work,  which  was 
mostly  prose  platitudes.  I  saw  him  last  in  London,  a  mem 
ber  of  the  Joaquin  Miller-Charles  Warren  Stoddard-Olive 
Harper  outfit  at  1 1  Museum  Street,  Bloomsbury  Square. 
He  married  there  a  fool  girl  named  Josie  —  forget  her  other 
name  —  with  whom  I  think  he  lived  awhile  in  hell,  then 
freed  himself,  and  some  years  afterward  returned  to  this 
country  and  was  found  dead  one  morning  in  a  boat  at  Sag 
Harbor.  Peace  to  the  soul  of  him.  No,  he  was  not  a  faker, 
but  a  conscientious  fellow  who  mistook  his  vocation. 

My  friends  have  returned  to  Washington,  but  I  expect  to 
remain  here  a  few  weeks  yet,  infesting  the  woods,  devas 
tating  the  mountain  larders,  supervising  the  sunsets  and 
guiding  the  stars  in  their  courses.  Then  to  New  York,  and 
finally  to  Washington.  Please  get  busy  with  that  fame  o' 
yours  so  as  to  have  the  wealth  to  come  and  help  me  loaf. 

I  hope  you  don't  mind  the  typewriter  —  /  don't. 

Convey  my  love  to  all  the  sweet  ladies  of  your  entourage  and 
make  my  compliments  also  to  the  Gang.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


ioo         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

Washington,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

^1904'  Your  latest  was  dated  Sept.  10. 1  got  it  while  alone  in  the 
mountains,  but  since  then  I  have  been  in  New  York  City 
and  at  West  Point  and  —  here.  New  York  is  too  strenuous 
for  me;  it  gets  on  my  nerves. 


*  *  * 


Please  don't  persuade  me  to  come  to  California  —  I  mean 
don't  try  to,  for  I  can't,  and  it  hurts  a  little  to  say  nay. 
There's  a  big  bit  of  my  heart  there,  but  —  O  never  mind  the 
reasons;  some  of  them  would  not  look  well  on  paper.  One  of 
them  I  don't  mind  telling;  I  would  not  live  in  a  state  under 
union  labor  rule.  There  is  still  one  place  where  the  honest 
American  laboring  man  is  not  permitted  to  cut  throats  and 
strip  bodies  of  women  at  his  own  sweet  will.  That  is  the 
District  of  Columbia. 

I  am  anxious  to  read  Lilith;  please  complete  it. 

I  have  another  note  of  rejection  for  you.  It  is  from  *  *  *. 
Knowing  that  you  will  not  bank  on  what  he  says  about  the 
Metropolitan,  I  enclose  it.  I've  acted  on  his  advising  and 
sent  the  poem.  It  is  about  time  for  it  to  come  back.  Then  I 
shall  try  the  other  magazines  until  the  list  is  exhausted. 

Did  I  return  your  Jinks  verses  ?  I  know  I  read  them  and 
meant  to  send  them  back,  but  my  correspondence  and  my 
papers  are  in  such  hopeless  disorder  that  I'm  all  at  sea  on 
these  matters.  For  aught  I  know  I  may  have  elaborately 
"answered"  the  letter  that  I  think  myself  to  be  answering 
now.  I  liked  the  verses  very  temperately,  not  madly. 

Of  course  you  are  right  about  the  magazine  editors  not 
knowing  poetry  when  they  see  it.  But  who  does  ?  I  have  not 
known  more  than  a  half-dozen  persons  in  America  that 
did,  and  none  of  them  edited  a  magazine. 

*  *  * 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         101 

No,  I  did  not  write  the  "Urus-Agricola-Acetes  stuff," 
though  it  was  writ  ten  for  me  and,  I  believe,  at  my  sugges 
tion.  The  author  was  "Jimmy"  Bowman,  of  whose  death 
I  wrote  a  sonnet  which  is  in  Black  Beetles.  He  and  I  used 
to  have  a  lot  of  fun  devising  literary  mischiefs,  fighting 
sham  battles  with  each  other  and  so  forth.  He  was  a  clever 
chap  and  a  good  judge  of  whiskey. 

Yes,  in  The  Cynic's  Dictionary  I  did  "jump  from  A  to 
M."  I  had  previously  done  the  stuff  in  various  papers  as 
far  as  M,  then  lost  the  beginning.  So  in  resuming  I  re-did 
that  part  (quite  differently,  of  course)  in  order  to  have  the 
thing  complete  if  I  should  want  to  make  a  book  of  it.  I 
guess  the  Examiner  isn't  running  much  of  it,  nor  much  of 
anything  of  mine. 


*   *  * 


I  like  your  love  of  Keats  and  the  early  Coleridge. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


MY  DEAR  DAVIS, 
The  "bad  eminence"  of  turning  down  Sterling's  great  TheN.Y. 

i  MI  i  i  -1  r  American  Office, 

poem  is  one  that  you  will  have  to  share  with  some  or  your  Washington,  D.  c. 
esteemed  fellow  magazinists  —  for  examples,  the  editors  of  October  I2» 
the  Atlantic,  Harper's,  Scribner's,  The  Century,  and  now 
the  Metropolitan,  all  of  the  elite.  All  of  these  gentlemen,  I 
believe,  profess,  as  you  do  not,  to  know  literature  when 
they  see  it,  and  to  deal  in  it. 

Well  I  profess  to  deal  in  it  in  a  small  way,  and  if  Sterling 
will  let  me  I  propose  some  day  to  ask  judgment  between 
them  and  me. 

Even  you  ask  for  literature  —  if  my  stones  are  literature, 
as  you  are  good  enough  to  imply.  (By  the  way,  all  the  lead- 


.'  '  14  •  l 

102         A  he  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

ing  publishers  of  the  country  turned  down  that  book  until 
they  saw  it  published  without  them  by  a  merchant  in  San 
Francisco  and  another  sort  of  publishers  in  London, 
Leipzig  and  Paris.)  Well,  you  wouldn't  do  a  thing  to  one  of 
my  stories! 

No,  thank  you;  if  I  have  to  write  rot,  I  prefer  to  do  it  for 
the  newspapers,  which  make  no  false  pretences  and  are 
frankly  rotten,  and  in  which  the  badness  of  a  bad  thing 
escapes  detection  or  is  forgotten  as  soon  as  it  is  cold. 

I  know  how  to  write  a  story  (of  the  "happy  ending"  sort) 
for  magazine  readers  for  whom  literature  is  too  good,  but  I 
will  not  do  so  so  long  as  stealing  is  more  honorable  and  in 
teresting. 

IVe  offered  you  the  best  stuff  to  be  had  —  Sterling's 
poem  —  and  the  best  that  I  am  able  to  make;  and  now  you 
must  excuse  me.  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  really  think  that 
you  would  take  "the  kind  of  fiction  that  made  'Soldiers 
and  Civilians'  the  most  readable  book  of  its  kind  in  this 
country,"  and  it  is  nice  of  you  to  put  it  that  way;  but 
neither  do  I  doubt  that  you  would  find  the  story  sent  a 
different  kind  of  fiction  and,  like  the  satire  which  you  re 
turn  to  me,  "out  of  the  question."  An  editor  who  has  a 
preformed  opinion  of  the  kind  of  stuff  that  he  is  going  to  get 
will  always  be  disappointed  with  the  stuff  that  he  does  get. 

I  know  this  from  my  early  experience  as  an  editor  —  be 
fore  I  learned  that  what  I  needed  was,  not  any  particular 
kind  of  stuff,  but  just  the  stuff  of  a  particular  kind  of 
writer. 

All  this  without  any  feeling,  and  only  by  way  of  explain 
ing  why  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         103 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

*  *  * 

Yes,  I  got  and  read  that  fool  thing  in  the  August  Critic.  Washington,  D.  c. 

_..,..  i  •  -i  «  i .  T  December  6. 

I  found  in  it  nothing  worse  than  stupidity  —  no  malice.  i904. 
Doubtless  you  have  not  sounded  the  deeper  deeps  of  stu 
pidity  in  critics,  and  so  are  driven  to  other  motives  to 
explain  their  unearthly  errors.  I  know  from  my  own  experi 
ence  of  long  ago  how  hard  it  is  to  accept  abominable 
criticism,  obviously  (to  the  criticee)  unfair,  without  attrib 
uting  a  personal  mean  motive;  but  the  attribution  is  nearly 
always  erroneous,  even  in  the  case  of  a  writer  with  so  many 
personal  enemies  as  I.  You  will  do  well  to  avoid  that  weak 
ness  of  the  tyro.  *  *  *  has  the  infirmity  in  an  apparently 
chronic  form.  Poets,  by  reason  of  the  sensibilities  that 
make  them  poets,  are  peculiarly  liable  to  it.  I  can't  see  any 
evidence  that  the  poor  devil  of  the  Critic  knew  better. 

The  Wine  of  Wizardry  is  at  present  at  the  Booklovers'. 
It  should  have  come  back  ere  this,  but  don't  you  draw  any 
happy  augury  from  that:  I'm  sure  they'll  turn  it  down,  and 
am  damning  them  in  advance. 

I  had  a  postal  from  *  *  *  a  few  days  ago.  He  was  in  Paris. 
I've  written  him  only  once,  explaining  by  drawing  his  at 
tention  to  the  fact  that  one's  reluctance  to  write  a  letter 
increases  in  the  ratio  of  the  square  of  the  distance  it  has  to 
go.  I  don't  know  why  that  is  so,  but  it  is  —  at  least  in  my 

case. 

*  *  * 

Yes,  I'm  in  perfect  health,  barring  a  bit  of  insomnia  at 
times,  and  enjoy  life  as  much  as  I  ever  did  —  except  when 
in  love  and  the  love  prospering;  that  is  to  say,  when  it  was 
new.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


104         Tt>e  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

Vashington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

1904!  This  is  the  worst  yet!  This  jobbernowl  seems  to  think 
"The  Wine  of  Wizardry"  a  story.  It  should  "arrive"  and 
be  "dramatic"  —  the  denouement  being,  I  suppose,  a  par 
ticularly  exciting  example  of  the  "happy  ending." 

My  dear  fellow,  I'm  positively  ashamed  to  throw  your 
pearls  before  any  more  of  these  swine,  and  I  humbly  ask 
your  pardon  for  having  done  it  at  all.  I  guess  the  "Wine" 
will  have  to  await  the  publication  of  your  next  book. 

But  I'd  like  to  keep  this  fellow's  note  if  you  will  kindly 
let  me  have  it.  Sometime,  when  the  poem  is  published,  I 
shall  paste  it  into  a  little  scrap  book,  with  all  the  notes  of 
rejection,  and  then  if  I  know  a  man  or  two  capable  of 
appreciating  the  humor  of  the  thing  I  can  make  merry  over 
it  with  them.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
*•»  *»»«•» 

ThxrArm^fnud  DEAR  GEORGE, 

Navy  Club,        T   ,  ,  ..  ,.,  r  .  .  , 

Vashington,  D.  c.,      It  s  a  long  time  since  the  date  of  your  latest  letter,  but 

7  ^address*  ^>ve  ^een  doing  two  men's  work  for  many  weeks  and  have 

February  18,  actually  not  found  the  leisure  to  write  to  my  friends.  As  it 

is  the  first  time  that  I've  worked  really  hard  for  several 

years  I  ought  not  to  complain,  and  don't.  But  I  hope  it  will 

end  with  this  session  of  Congress. 

I  think  I  did  not  thank  you  for  the  additional  copies  of 
your  new  book  —  the  new  edition.  I  wish  it  contained  the 
new  poem,  "A  Wine  of  Wizardry."  I've  given  up  trying  to 
get  it  into  anything.  I  related  my  failure  to  Mackay,  of 
"Success,"  and  he  asked  to  be  permitted  to  see  it.  "No,"  I 
replied,  "you  too  would  probably  turn  it  down,  and  I  will 
take  no  chances  of  losing  the  respect  that  I  have  for  you." 
And  I'd  not  show  it  to  him.  He  declared  his  intention  of 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         105 

getting  it,  though  —  which  was  just  what  I  wanted  him  to 
do.  But  I  dare  say  he  didn't. 

Yes,  you  sent  me  "The  Sea  Wolf."  My  opinion  of  it? 
Certainly  —  or  a  part  of  it.  It  is  a  most  disagreeable  book, 
as  a  whole.  London  has  a  pretty  bad  style  and  no  sense  of 
proportion.  The  story  is  a  perfect  welter  of  disagreeable  in 
cidents.  Two  or  three  (of  the  kind)  would  have  sufficed  to 
show  the  character  of  the  man  Larsen;  and  his  own  self- 
revealings  by  word  of  mouth  would  have  "done  the  rest." 
Many  of  these  incidents,  too,  are  impossible  —  such  as  that 
of  a  man  mounting  a  ladder  with  a  dozen  other  men  —  more 
or  less  —  hanging  to  his  leg,  and  the  hero's  work  of  rerigging 
a  wreck  and  getting  it  off  a  beach  where  it  had  stuck  for 
weeks,  and  so  forth.  The  "love"  element,  with  its  absurd 
suppressions  and  impossible  proprieties,  is  awful.  I  confess 
to  an  overwhelming  contempt  for  both  the  sexless  lovers. 

Now  as  to  the  merits.  It  is  a  rattling  good  story  in  one 
way;  something  is  "going  on"  all  the  time  — not  always 
what  one  would  wish,  but  something.  One  does  not  go  to 
sleep  over  the  book.  But  the  great  thing  —  and  it  is  among 
the  greatest  of  things  —  is  that  tremendous  creation,  Wolf 
Larsen.  If  that  is  not  a  permanent  addition  to  literature,  it 
is  at  least  a  permanent  figure  in  the  memory  of  the  reader. 
You  "can't  lose"  Wolf  Larsen.  He  will  be  with  you  to  the 
end.  So  it  does  not  really  matter  how  London  has  ham 
mered  him  into  you.  You  may  quarrel  with  the  methods, 
but  the  result  is  almost  incomparable.  The  hewing  out  and 
setting  up  of  such  a  figure  is  enough  for  a  man  to  do  in  one 
life- time.  I  have  hardly  words  to  impart  my  good  judg 
ment  of  that  work. 


*  *  * 


That  is  a  pretty  picture  of  Phyllis  as  Cleopatra  —  whom  I 


106         *£he  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

think  you  used  to  call  "the  angel  child"  —  as  the  Furies 

were  called  Eumenides. 

*  *  * 

I'm  enclosing  a  review  of  your  book  in  the  St.  Louis 
"Mirror,"  a  paper  always  kindly  disposed  toward  our  little 
group  of  gifted  obscurians.  I  thought  you  might  not  have 
seen  it;  and  it  is  worth  seeing.  Percival  Pollard  sends  it  me; 
and  to  him  we  owe  our  recognition  by  the  "  Mirror." 

I  hope  you  prosper  apace.  I  mean  mentally  and  spirit 
ually;  all  other  prosperity  is  trash. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Washington,  D  C,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

Pri9o5!  I've  reached  your  letter  on  my  file.  I  wonder  that  I  did, 
for  truly  I'm  doing  a  lot  of  work  —  mostly  of  the  pot 
boiler,  newspaper  sort,  some  compiling  of  future  —  prob 
ably  very  future  —  books  and  a  little  for  posterity. 

Valentine  has  not  returned  the  "Wine  of  Wizardry,"  but 
I  shall  tell  him  to  in  a  few  days  and  will  then  try  it  on  the 
magazines  you  mention.  If  that  fails  I  can  see  no  objection 
to  offering  it  to  the  English  periodicals. 

I  don't  know  about  Mackay.  He  has  a  trifle  of  mine  which 
he  was  going  to  run  months  ago.  He  didn't  and  I  asked  it 
back.  He  returned  it  and  begged  that  it  go  back  to  him  for 
immediate  publication.  It  went  back,  but  publication  did 
not  ensue.  In  many  other  ways  he  has  been  exceedingly 
kind.  Guess  he  can't  always  have  his  way. 

*  *  * 

I  read  that  other  book  to  the  bitter  end  —  the  "Arthur 
Sterling"  thing.  He  is  the  most  disagreeable  character  in 
fiction,  though  Marie  Bashkirtseff  and  Mary  McLean  in 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce        107 

real  life  could  give  him  cards  and  spades.  Fancy  a  poet,  or 
any  kind  of  writer,  whom  it  hurts  to  think!  What  the  devil 
are  his  agonies  all  about  —  his  writhings  and  twistings  and 
foaming  at  all  his  mouths?  What  would  a  poem  by  an  in 
tellectual  epileptic  like  that  be?  Happily  the  author  spares 
us  quotation.  I  suppose  there  are  Arthur  Sterlings  among 
the  little  fellows,  but  if  genius  is  not  serenity,  fortitude  and 
reasonableness  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  One  cannot  even 
imagine  Shakespeare  or  Goethe  bleeding  over  his  work  and 
howling  when  "in  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance."  The 
great  ones  are  figured  in  my  mind  as  ever  smiling  —  a  little 
sadly  at  times,  perhaps,  but  always  with  conscious  inacces 
sibility  to  the  pinpricking  little  Titans  that  would  storm 
their  Olympus  armed  with  ineffectual  disasters  and  pop 
gun  misfortunes.  Fancy  a  fellow  wanting,  like  Arthur  Ster 
ling,  to  be  supported  by  his  fellows  in  order  that  he  may 
write  what  they  don't  want  to  read!  Even  Jack  London 

would  gag  at  such  Socialism  as  that. 

*  *  * 

I'm  going  to  pass  a  summer  month  or  two  with  the  Pol 
lards,  at  Saybrook,  Conn.  How  I  wish  you  could  be  of  the 
party.  But  I  suppose  you'll  be  chicken-ranching  then,  and 
happy  enough  where  you  are.  I  wish  you  joy  of  the  venture 
and,  although  I  fear  it  means  a  meagre  living,  it  will  prob 
ably  be  more  satisfactory  than  doubling  over  a  desk  in  your 
uncle's  office.  The  very  name  Carmel  Bay  is  enchanting. 
I've  a  notion  I  shall  see  that  ranch  some  day.  I  don't  quite 
recognize  the  "filtered-through-the-emasculated-minds-of- 
about-six- fools"  article  from  which  you  say  I  quote  —  don't 
remember  it,  nor  remember  quoting  from  it. 

I  don't  wonder  at  your  surprise  at  my  high  estimate  of 
Longfellow  in  a  certain  article.  It  is  higher  than  my  perm  a- 


io8         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

nent  one.  I  was  thinking  (while  writing  for  a  newspaper, 
recollect)  rather  of  his  fame  than  of  his  genius  —  I  had  to 
have  a  literary  equivalent  to  Washington  or  Lincoln.  Still, 
we  must  not  forget  that  Longfellow  wrote  "Chrysaor" 
and,  in  narrative  poetry  (which  you  don't  care  for)  "Rob 
ert  of  Sicily."  Must  one  be  judged  by  his  average,  or  may 
he  be  judged,  on  occasion,  by  his  highest?  He  is  strongest 
who  can  lift  the  greatest  weight,  not  he  who  habitually 
lifts  lesser  ones. 

As  to  your  queries.  So  far  as  I  know,  Realf  did  write  his 
great  sonnets  on  the  night  of  his  death.  Anyhow,  they  were 
found  with  the  body.  Your  recollection  that  I  said  they 
were  written  before  he  came  to  the  Coast  is  faulty.  Some 
of  his  other  things  were  in  print  when  he  submitted  them 
to  me  (and  took  pay  for  them)  as  new;  but  not  the  "De 
Mortuis. " 

I  got  the  lines  about  the  echoes  (I  think  they  go  this  way: 

"  the  loon 

Laughed,  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  affright, 
Like  Odin's  hounds  went  baying  down  the  night") 

from  a  poem  entitled,  I  think,  "The  Washers  of  the 
Shroud."  I  found  it  in  the  "Atlantic,"  in  the  summer  of 
1864,  while  at  home  from  the  war  suffering  from  a  wound, 
and  —  disgraceful  fact!  —  have  never  seen  nor  heard  of  it 
since.  If  the  magazine  was  a  current  number,  as  I  suppose, 
it  should  be  easy  to  find  the  poem.  If  you  look  it  up  tell  me 
about  it.  I  don't  even  know  the  author  —  had  once  a  vague 
impression  that  it  was  Lowell  but  don't  know. 

The  compound  "mulolatry,"  which  I  made  in  "Ashes  of 
the  Beacon,"  would  not,  of  course,  be  allowable  in  compo 
sition  altogether  serious.  I  used  it  because  I  could  not  at 
the  moment  think  of  the  right  word,  "  gyneolatry, "  or 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce        109 

"  gynecolatry, "  according  as  you  make  use  of  the  nomina 
tive  or  the  accusative.  I  once  made  "caniolatry"  for  a 
similar  reason  —just  laziness.  It's  not  nice  to  do  things  o' 
that  kind,  even  in  newspapers. 

*  *  * 

I  had  intended  to  write  you  something  of  "beesness,"  but 
time  is  up  and  it  must  wait.  This  letter  is  insupportably 
long  already. 
My  love  to  Carrie  and  Katie.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
*t»4t»*i» 
DEAR  GEORGE, 
Bailey  Millard  is  editor  of  "The  Cosmopolitan  Maga-  Army  and  Navy  ciub, 

>»        i  •    i     TV /r       TT  i          1  i         T  1  •         •       XT  Washington,  D.  C., 

zine,    which  Mr.  Hearst  has  bought.  1  met  him  in  New  Mayi6, 
York  two  weeks  ago.  He  had  just  arrived  and  learning  from  I9°5* 
Hearst  that  I  was  in  town  looked  me  up.  I  had  just  recom 
mended  him  to  Hearst  as  editor.  He  had  intended  him  for 
associate  editor.  I  think  that  will  give  you  a  chance,  such  as 
it  is.  Millard  dined  with  me  and  I  told  him  the  adventures 
of  "A  Wine  of  Wizardry."  I  shall  send  it  to  him  as  soon  as 
he  has  warmed  his  seat,  unless  you  would  prefer  to  send  it 
yourself.  He  already  knows  my  whole  good  opinion  of  it, 
and  he  shares  my  good  opinion  of  you. 

I  suppose  you  are  at  your  new  ranch,  but  I  shall  address 
this  letter  as  usual. 


*  *  * 


If  you  hear  of  my  drowning  know  that  it  is  the  natural 
(and  desirable)  result  of  the  canoe  habit.  I've  a  dandy 
canoe  and  am  tempting  fate  and  alarming  my  friends  by 
frequenting,  not  the  margin  of  the  upper  river,  but  the 
broad  reaches  below  town,  where  the  wind  has  miles  and 
miles  of  sweep  and  kicks  up  a  most  exhilarating  combob- 


1  10         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

bery.  If  I  escape  I'm  going  to  send  my  boat  up  to  Say- 
brook,  Connecticut,  and  navigate  Long  Island  Sound. 

Are  you  near  enough  to  the  sea  to  do  a  bit  of  boating  now 
and  then  ?  When  I  visit  you  I  shall  want  to  bring  my  canoe. 

I've  nearly  given  up  my  newspaper  work,  but  shall  do 
something  each  month  for  the  Magazine.  Have  not  done 
much  yet  —  have  not  been  in  the  mind.  Death  has  been 
striking  pretty  close  to  me  again,  and  you  know  how  that 
upsets  a  fellow.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Washington,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

1905 


'      your  debtor  for  two  good  long  letters.  You  err  in 


thinking  your  letters,  of  whatever  length  and  frequency, 
can  be  otherwise  than  delightful  to  me. 

No,  you  had  not  before  sent  me  Upton  Sinclair's  article 
explaining  why  American  literature  is  "bourgeois."  It  is 
amusingly  grotesque.  The  political  and  economical  situa 
tion  has  about  as  much  to  do  with  it  as  have  the  direction 
of  our  rivers  and  the  prevailing  color  of  our  hair.  But  it  is  of 
the  nature  of  the  faddist  (and  of  all  faddists  the  ultra  so 
cialist  is  the  most  untamed  by  sense)  to  see  in  everything 
his  hobby,  with  its  name  writ  large.  He  is  the  humorist  of 
observers.  When  Sinclair  transiently  forgets  his  gospel  of 
the  impossible  he  can  see  well  enough. 

I  note  what  you  say  of  *  *  *  and  know  that  he  did  not  use 
to  like  me,  though  I  doubt  if  he  ever  had  any  antipathy  to 
you.  Six  or  eight  years  ago  I  tackled  him  on  a  particularly 
mean  fling  that  he  had  made  at  me  while  I  was  absent  from 
California.  (I  think  I  had  not  met  him  before.)  I  told  him, 
rather  coarsely,  what  I  thought  of  the  matter.  He  candidly 
confessed  himself  in  the  wrong,  expressed  regret  and  has 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


in 


ever  since,  so  far  as  I  know,  been  just  and  even  generous 
to  me.  I  think  him  sincere  now,  and  enclose  a  letter  which 
seems  to  show  it.  You  may  return  it  if  you  will  —  I  send  it 
mainly  because  it  concerns  your  poem.  The  trouble  —  our 
trouble  —  with  *  *  *  is  that  he  has  voluntarily  entered  into 
slavery  to  the  traditions  and  theories  of  the  magazine 
trade,  which,  like  those  of  all  trades,  are  the  product  of 
small  men.  The  big  man  makes  his  success  by  ignoring 
them.  Your  estimate  of  *  *  *  I'm  not  disposed  to  quarrel 

with,  but  do  think  him  pretty  square. 

*  *  * 

Bless  you,  don't  take  the  trouble  to  go  through  the  Iliad 
and  Odyssey  to  pick  out  the  poetical  parts.  I  grant  you 
they  are  brief  and  infrequent  —  I  mean  in  the  translation. 
I  hold,  with  Poe,  that  there  are  no  long  poems  —  only 
bursts  of  poetry  in  long  spinnings  of  metrical  prose.  But  even 
the  "  recitative  "of  the  translated  Grecian  poets  has  a  charm 
to  one  that  it  may  not  have  to  another.  I  doubt  if  any 
one  who  has  always  loved  "the  glory  that  was  Greece"  — 
who  has  been  always  in  love  with  its  jocund  deities,  and 
so  forth,  can  say  accurately  just  how  much  of  his  joy  in 
Homer  (for  example)  is  due  to  love  of  poetry,  and  how 
much  to  a  renewal  of  mental  youth  and  young  illusions. 
Some  part  of  the  delight  that  we  get  from  verse  defies 
analysis  and  classification.  Only  a  man  without  a  memory 
(and  memories)  could  say  just  what  pleased  him  in  poetry 
and  be  sure  that  it  was  the  poetry  only.  For  example,  I 
never  read  the  opening  lines  of  the  Pope  Iliad  —  and  I  don't 
need  the  book  for  much  of  the  first  few  hundred,  I  guess  — 
without  seeming  to  be  on  a  sunny  green  hill  on  a  cold  windy 
day,  with  the  bluest  of  skies  above  me  and  billows  of  pas 
ture  below,  running  to  a  clean-cut  horizon.  There's  nothing 


1 1 2         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

in  the  text  warranting  that  illusion,  which  is  nevertheless 
to  me  apart  of  the  Iliad;  a  most  charming  part,  too.  It  all 
comes  of  my  having  first  read  the  thing  under  such  condi 
tions  at  the  age  of  about  ten.  I  remember  that;  but  how 
many  times  I  must  be  powerfully  affected  by  the  poets 
without  remembering  why.  If  a  fellow  could  cut  out  all  that 
extrinsic  interest  he  would  be  a  fool  to  do  so.  But  he  would 
be  a  better  critic. 

You  ought  to  be  happy  in  the  contemplation  of  a  natural, 
wholesome  life  at  Carmel  Bay  — the  "prospect  pleases," 
surely.  But  I  fear,  I  fear.  Maybe  you  can  get  a  newspaper 
connection  that  will  bring  you  in  a  small  income  without 
compelling  you  to  do  violence  to  your  literary  conscience. 
I  doubt  if  you  can  get  your  living  out  of  the  ground.  But  I 
shall  watch  the  experiment  with  sympathetic  interest,  for 
it  "appeals"  to  me.  I'm  a  trifle  jaded  with  age  and  the 
urban  life,  and  maybe  if  you  can  succeed  in  that  other  sort 
of  thing  I  could. 


*  *  * 


As  to  *  *  *  the  Superb.  Isn't  Sag  Harbor  somewhere  near 
Saybrook,  Connecticut,  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  of  that 
name?  I'm  going  there  for  a  month  with  Percival  Pollard. 
Shall  leave  here  about  the  first  of  July.  If  Sag  Harbor  is 
easily  accessible  from  there,  and  *  *  *  would  care  to  see 
me,  I'll  go  and  call  on  her.  *  *  *  But  maybe  I'd  fall  in  love 
with  her  and,  being  now  (alas)  eligible,  just  marry  her 
alive!  — or  be  turned  down  by  her,  to  the  unspeakable 
wrecking  of  my  peace!  I'm  only  a  youth  —  63  on  the  24th 
of  this  month  —  and  it  would  be  too  bad  if  I  got  started 
wrong  in  life.  But  really  I  don't  know  about  the  good  taste 
of  being  jocular  about  *  *  *.  I'm  sure  she  must  be  a  serious 
enough  maiden,  with  the  sun  of  a  declining  race  yellow 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         113 

on  her  hair.  Eva  Crawford  thinks  her  most  lovable  —  and 
Eva  has  a  clear,  considering  eye  upon  you  all. 


*  *  * 


I'm  going  to  send  up  my  canoe  to  Saybrook  and  challenge 
the  rollers  of  the  Sound.  Don't  you  fear  —  I'm  an  expert 
canoeist  from  boyhood.  *  *  *  Sincerely, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
MM**** 
DEAR  GEORGE, 
I  have  at  last  the  letter  that  I  was  waiting  for  —  didn't  Washington,  D.  c., 

answer  the  other,  for  one  of  mine  was  on  the  way  to  you.  iy%.    er3' 

*  *  * 

You  need  not  worry  yourself  about  your  part  of  the  busi 
ness.  You  have  acted  "mighty  white,"  as  was  to  have  been 
expected  of  you;  and,  caring  little  for  any  other  feature  of 
the  matter,  I'm  grateful  to  you  for  giving  my  pessimism 
and  growing  disbelief  in  human  disinterestedness  a  sound 

wholesome  thwack  on  the  mazzard. 

*  *  * 

Yes,  I  was  sorry  to  whack  London,  for  whom,  in  his  char 
acter  as  author,  I  have  a  high  admiration,  and  in  that  of 
publicist  and  reformer  a  deep  contempt.  Even  if  he  had 
been  a  personal  friend,  I  should  have  whacked  him,  and 
doubtless  much  harder.  I'm  not  one  of  those  who  give  their 
friends  carte  blanche  to  sin.  If  my  friend  dishonors  himself 
he  dishonors  me;  if  he  makes  a  fool  of  himself  he  makes  a 
fool  of  me  —  which  another  cannot  do. 

*  *  * 

Your  description  of  your  new  environment,  in  your  other 
letter,  makes  me  "homesick"  to  see  it.  I  cordially  congrat 
ulate  you  and  Mrs.  Sterling  on  having  the  sense  to  do  what 
I  have  always  been  too  indolent  to  do  —  namely  as  you 


1  14         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

please.  Guess  I've  been  always  too  busy  "warming  both 
hands  before  the  fire  of  life.  "  And  now,  when 

"It  sinks  and  I  am  ready  to  depart," 

I  find  that  the  damned  fire  was  in  me  and  ought  to  have 
been  quenched  with  a  dash  of  cold  sense.  I'm  having  my 
canoe  decked  and  yawl-rigged  for  deep  water  and  live  in 
the  hope  of  being  drowned  according  to  the  dictates  of  my 
conscience. 

By  way  of  proving  my  power  of  self-restraint  I'm  going 
to  stop  this  screed  with  a  whole  page  unused. 

Sincerely  yours,  as  ever, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

"TJoi!  I  don't  know  why  I've  not  written  to  you  —  that  is,  I 
don't  know  why  God  made  me  what  I  have  the  misfortune 
to  be:  a  sufferer  from  procrastination. 

*  *  * 

I  have  read  Mary  Austin's  book  with  unexpected  inter 
est.  It  is  pleasing  exceedingly.  You  may  not  know  that  I'm 
familiar  with  the  kind  of  country  she  writes  of,  and  reading 
the  book  was  like  traversing  it  again.  But  the  best  of  her  is 
her  style.  That  is  delicious.  It  has  a  slight  "  tang"  of  archa 
ism—just  enough  to  suggest  "lucent  sirups  tinct  with 
cinnamon,"  or  the  "spice  and  balm"  of  Miller's  sea-winds. 
And  what  a  knack  at  observation  she  has  !  Nothing  escapes 
her  eye.  Tell  me  about  her.  What  else  has  she  written? 
What  is  she  going  to  write?  If  she  is  still  young  she  will  do 
great  work;  if  not  —  well,  she  has  done  it  in  that  book.  But 
she'll  have  to  hammer  and  hammer  again  and  again  before 
the  world  will  hear  and  heed. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         115 

As  to  me  I'm  pot-boiling.  My  stuff  in  the  N.  Y.  American 
(I  presume  that  the  part  of  it  that  you  see  is  in  the  Exam 
iner)  is  mere  piffle,  written  without  effort,  purpose  or  care. 
My  department  in  the  Cosmopolitan  is  a  failure,  as  I  told 
Millard  it  would  be.  It  is  impossible  to  write  topical  stuff 
for  a  magazine.  How  can  one  discuss  with  heart  or  inspira 
tion  a  thing  that  happens  two  months  or  so  before  one's 
comments  on  it  will  be  read?  The  venture  and  the  title 
were  Hearst's  notion,  but  the  title  so  handicaps  me  that  I 
can  do  nothing  right.  I  shall  drop  it. 

I've  done  three  little  stories  for  the  March  number  (they 
may  be  postponed)  that  are  ghastly  enough  to  make  a  pig 
squeal.  *  *  * 

Sincerely  yours, 

£€»£*>£«»        AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
MY  DEAR  GEORGE, 

First,  about  the  "  Wine,"  I  dislike  the  "  privately  printed"  Washington,  D.  c. 
racket.  Can  you  let  the  matter  wait  a  little  longer?  Neale  i9o6? 
has  the  poem,  and  Neale  is  just  now  inaccessible  to  letters, 
somewhere  in  the  South  in  the  interest  of  his  magazine- 
that-is-to-be.  I  called  when  in  New  York,  but  he  had  flown 
and  I've  been  unable  to  reach  him;  but  he  is  due  here  on 
the  23rd.  Then  if  his  mag  is  going  to  hold  fire,  or  if  he 
doesn't  want  the  poem  for  it,  let  Robertson  or  Josephare 
have  a  hack  at  it. 

Barr  is  amusing.  I  don't  care  to  have  a  copy  of  his  re 
marks. 

About  the  pirating  of  my  stories.  That  is  a  matter  for 
Chatto  and  Windus,  who  bought  the  English  copyright  of 
the  book  from  which  that  one  story  came.  I  dare  say, 
though,  the  publication  was  done  by  arrangement  with 
them.  Anyhow  my  interests  are  not  involved. 


1 1 6         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

I  was  greatly  interested  in  your  account  of  Mrs.  Austin. 
She's  a  clever  woman  and  should  write  a  good  novel — if 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  good  novel.  I  won't  read  novels. 

Yes,  the  "Cosmopolitan"  cat-story  is  Leigh's  and  is  to 
be  credited  to  him  if  ever  published  in  covers.  I  fathered  it 
as  the  only  way  to  get  it  published  at  all.  Of  course  I  had 
to  rewrite  it;  it  was  very  crude  and  too  horrible.  A  story 
may  be  terrible,  but  must  not  be  horrible — there  is  a  dif 
ference.  I  found  the  manuscript  among  his  papers. 

It  is  disagreeable  to  think  of  the  estrangement  between 
*  *  *  and  his  family.  Doubtless  the  trouble  arises  from  his 
being  married.  Yes,  it  is  funny,  his  taking  his  toddy  along 
with  you  old  soakers.  I  remember  he  used  to  kick  at  my 
having  wine  in  camp  and  at  your  having  a  bottle  hidden 
away  in  the  bushes. 

I  had  seen  that  group  of  you  and  Joaquin  and  Stoddard 
and  laughed  at  your  lifelike  impersonation  of  the  Drowsy 
Demon. 

I  passed  the  first  half  of  last  month  in  New  York.  Went 
there  for  a  dinner  and  stayed  to  twelve.  Sam  Davis  and 
Homer  Davenport  were  of  the  party. 

Sam  was  here  for  a  few  days  — but  maybe  you  don't  know 
Sam.  He's  a  brother  to  Bob,  who  swears  you  got  your 
Dante-like  solemnity  of  countenance  by  coming  into  his 
office  when  he  was  editing  a  newspaper. 

You  are  not  to  think  I  have  thrown  *  *  *  over.  There 
are  only  two  or  three  matters  of  seriousness  between  us 
and  they  cannot  profitably  be  discussed  in  letters,  so  they 
must  wait  until  he  and  I  meet  if  we  ever  do.  I  shall  men 
tion  them  to  no  one  else  and  I  don't  suppose  he  will  to  any 
one  but  me.  Apart  from  these— well,  our  correspondence 
was  disagreeable,  so  the  obvious  thing  to  do  was  to  put  an 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce        1 1 7 

end  to  it.  To  unlike  a  friend  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  do,  and 
I've  not  attempted  to  do  it. 

Of  course  I  approve  the  new  lines  in  the  "Wine"  and  if 
Neale  or  anybody  else  will  have  the  poem  I  shall  insert 
them  in  their  place.  That  "screaming  thing"  stays  with 
one  almost  as  does  "the  blue-eyed  vampire/'  and  is  not 
only  visible,  as  is  she,  but  audible  as  well.  If  you  go  on 
adding  lines  to  the  poem  I  shall  not  so  sharply  deplore  our 
failure  to  get  it  into  print.  As  Mark  Twain  says:  "Every 
time  you  draw  you  fill." 

The  "Night  in  Heaven"  is  fine  work  in  the  grand  style 
and  its  swing  is  haunting  when  one  gets  it.  I  get  a  jolt  or 
two  in  the  reading,  but  I  dare  say  you  purposely  contrived 
them  and  I  can't  say  they  hurt.  Of  course  the  rhythm  re 
calls  Kipling's  "The  Last  Chanty"  (I'm  not  sure  I  spell 
the  word  correctly— if  there's  a  correct  way)  but  that  is 
nothing.  Nobody  has  the  copyright  of  any  possible  metre 
or  rhythm  in  English  prosody.  It  has  been  long  since  any 
body  was  "first."  When  are  you  coming  to  Washington  to 
sail  in  my  canoe?  Sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

£•»£*«* 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

I've  been  in  New  York  again  but  am  slowly  recovering.  I  Washington,  D.  c. 
saw  Neale.  He  assures  me  that  the  magazine  will  surely  i906. 
materialize  about  June,  and  he  wants  the  poem,  "A  Wine 
of  Wizardry,"  with  an  introduction  by  me.  I  think  he 
means  it;  if  so  that  will  give  it  greater  publicity  than  what 
you  have  in  mind,  even  if  the  mag  eventually  fail.  Maga 
zines  if  well  advertised  usually  sell  several  hundred  thou 
sand  of  the  first  issue;  the  trick  is  to  keep  them  going.  Mun- 
sey's  "Scrap  Book"  disposed  of  a  half-million.  *  *  * 

*  *  *  was  to  start  for  a  few  weeks  in  California  about 


1  1  8         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

now.  I  hope  you  will  see  him.  He  is  not  a  bad  lot  when  con 
vinced  that  one  respects  him.  He  has  been  treated  pretty 
badly  in  this  neck  o'  the  woods,  as  is  every  Western  man 
who  breaks  into  this  realm  of  smugwumps. 

My  benediction  upon  Carmelites  all  and  singular  —  if  any 
are  all.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  are  to  publish  my  "  Cynic's  Dic 
tionary.  " 


The  Army  and 
Navy  Club, 

Washington,  D.  c.,  I  write  in  the  hope  that  you  are  alive  and  the  fear  that 
1906!  y°u  are  wrecked.* 

Please  let  me  know  if  I  can  help  —  I  need  not  say  how 
glad  I  shall  be  to  do  so.  "Help"  would  go  with  this  were  I 
sure  about  you  and  the  post-office.  It's  a  mighty  bad  busi 
ness  and  one  does  not  need  to  own  property  out  there  to  be 
"hit  hard"  by  it.  One  needs  only  to  have  friends  there. 

We  are  helpless  here,  so  far  as  the  telegraph  is  concerned  — 
shall  not  be  able  to  get  anything  on  the  wires  for  many 
days,  all  private  dispatches  being  refused. 

Pray  God  you  and  yours  may  be  all  right.  Of  course  any 
thing  that  you  may  be  able  to  tell  me  of  my  friends  will  be 
gratefully  received.  Sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

0ft»4*£» 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE,, 

fjo^     Your  letter  relieves  me  greatly.  I  had  begun  to  fear  that 

you  had  "gone  before."  Thank  you  very  much  for  your 

news  of  our  friends.  I  had  already  heard  from  Eva  Croffie. 

Also  from  Grizzly.  *  *  * 

Thank  you  for  Mr.  Eddy's  review  of  "  Shapes.  "  But  he  is 

*The  San  Francisco  earthquake  and  fire  had  occurred  April  18,  1906. 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         119 

misinformed  about  poor  Flora  Shearer.  Of  course  I  helped 
her  —  who  would  not  help  a  good  friend  in  adversity?  But 
she  went  to  Scotland  to  a  brother  long  ago,,  and  at  this  time 
I  do  not  know  if  she  is  living  or  dead. 

But  here  am  I  forgetting  (momentarily)  that  awful  wip 
ing  out  of  San  Francisco.  It  "hit  "me  pretty  hard  in  many 
ways  —  mostly  indirectly,  through  my  friends.  I  had  rather 
hoped  to  have  to  "put  up"  for  you  and  your  gang,  and  am 
a  trifle  disappointed  to  know  that  you  are  all  right  —  except 
the  chimneys.  I'm  glad  that  tidal  wave  did  not  come,  but 
don't  you  think  you'd  better  have  a  canoe  ready?  You 
could  keep  it  on  your  veranda  stacked  with  provisions  and 
whiskey. 

My  letter  from  Ursus  (written  during  the  conflagration) 
expresses  a  keen  solicitude  for  the  Farallones,  as  the  fire 
was  working  westward. 

If  this  letter  is  a  little  disconnected  and  incoherent  know, 
O  King,  that  I  have  just  returned  from  a  dinner  in  Atlantic 
City,  N.  J.  I  saw  Markham  there,  also  Bob  Davis,  Sam 
MofTett,  Honker  Davenport,  Bob  Mackay  and  other  San 
Franciscans^  (Can  there  be  a  San  Franciscan  when  there  is 
no  San  Francisco?  I  don't  want  to  go  back.  Doubtless  the 
new  San  Francisco  —  while  it  lasts  —  will  be  a  finer  town 
than  the  old,  but  it  will  not  be  my  San  Francisco  and  I 
don't  want  to  see  it.  It  has  for  many  years  been,  to  me,  full 
of  ghosts.  Now  it  is  itself  a  ghost.)^ 

I  return  the  sonnets.  Destruction  of  "Town  Talk"  has 
doubtless  saved  you  from  having  the  one  on  me  turned 
down.  Dear  old  fellow,  don't  take  the  trouble  to  defend  my 
memory  when  —  or  at  least  until  — 

"I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell." 


120         TChe  Letters  of  Ambrose  fierce 

I'm  not  letting  my  enemies'  attitude  trouble  me  at  all.  On 
the  contrary,  I'm  rather  sorry  for  them  and  their  insomnia- 
lying  awake  o'  nights  to  think  out  new  and  needful  lies 
about  me,  while  I  sleep  sweetly.  O,  it  is  all  right,  truly. 

No,  I  never  had  any  row  (nor  much  acquaintance)  with 
Mark  Twain  —  met  him  but  two  or  three  times.  Once  with 
Stoddard  in  London.  I  think  pretty  well  of  him,  but  doubt 
if  he  cared  for  me  and  can't,  at  the  moment,  think  of  any 
reason  why  he  should  have  cared  for  me. 

"The  Cynic's  Dictionary"  is  a-printing.  I  shall  have  to 
call  it  something  else,  for  the  publishers  tell  me  there  is  a 
"Cynic's  Dictionary"  already  out.  I  dare  say  the  author 
took  more  than  my  title  —  the  stuff  has  been  a  rich  mine 
for  a  plagiarist  for  many  a  year.  They  (the  publishers) 
won't  have  "The  Devil's  Dictionary."  Here  in  the  East 
the  Devil  is  a  sacred  personage  (the  Fourth  Person  of  the 
Trinity,  as  an  Irishman  might  say)  and  his  name  must  not 
be  taken  in  vain. 

No,  "The  Testimony  of  the  Suns"  has  not  "palled"  on 
me.  I  still  read  it  and  still  think  it  one  of  the  world's  great 
est  poems.  ^  #  ^ 

Well,  God  be  wi'  ye  and  spare  the  shack  at  Carmel, 
Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

i9o6!  Your  poem,  "A  Dream  of  Fear"  was  so  good  before  that 
it  needed  no  improvement,  though  I'm  glad  to  observe  that 
you  have  "the  passion  for  perfection."  Sure  —  you  shall 
have  your  word  "  colossal  "  applied  to  a  thing  of  two  dimen 
sions,  an  you  will. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce        121 

I  have  no  objection  to  the  publication  of  that  sonnet  on 
me.  It  may  give  my  enemies  a  transient  feeling  that  is  dis 
agreeable,  and  if  I  can  do  that  without  taking  any  trouble 
in  the  matter  myself  it  is  worth  doing.  I  think  they  must 
have  renewed  their  activity,  to  have  provoked  you  so  —  got 
up  a  new  and  fascinating  lie,  probably.  Thank  you  for  put 
ting  your  good  right  leg  into  action  themward. 

What  a  "settlement"  you  have  collected  about  you  at 
Carmel!  All  manner  of  cranks  and  curios,  to  whom  I  feel 
myself  drawn  by  affinit^Still  I  suppose  I  shall  not  go.  I 
should  have  to  see  the  new  San  Francisco  —  when  it  has 
foolishly  been  built  —  and  I'd  rather  not.  One  does  not  care 
to  look  upon  either  the  mutilated  face  of  one's  mashed 
friend  or  an  upstart  imposter  bearing  his  name.  No,  my 

San  Francisco  is  gone  and  I'll  have  no  other.  \ 

*  *  * 

You  are  wrong  about  Gorky  —  he  has  none  of  the  "artist" 
in  him.  He  is  not  only  a  peasant,  but  an  anarchist  and  an 
advocate  of  assassination  —  by  others;  like  most  of  his 
tribe,  he  doesn't  care  to  take  the  risk  himself.  His  "career" 
in  this  country  has  been  that  of  a  yellow  dog.  Hearst's 
newspapers  and  *  *  *  are  the  only  friends  that  remain  to 
him  of  all  those  that  acclaimed  him  when  he  landed.  And 
all  the  sturdy  lying  of  the  former  cannot  rehabilitate  him. 
It  isn't  merely  the  woman  matter.  You'd  understand  if  you 
were  on  this  side  of  the  country.  I  was  myself  a  dupe  in  the 
matter.  He  had  expressed  high  admiration  of  my  books  (in 
an  interview  in  Russia)  and  when  his  Government  released 
him  from  prison  I  cabled  him  congratulations.  O,  my! 

Yes,  I've  observed  the  obviously  lying  estimates  of  the 
San  Franciscan  dead;  also  that  there  was  no  earthquake  — 
just  a  fire;  also  the  determination  to  "beat"  the  insurance 


122         *fbe  Letters  of  Ambrose  fierce 

companies.  Insurance  is  a  hog  game,  and  if  they  (the  com 
panies)  can  be  beaten  out  of  their  dishonest  gains  by 
superior  dishonesty  I  have  no  objection;  but  in  my  judg 
ment  they  are  neither  legally  nor  morally  liable  for  the  half 
that  is  claimed  of  them.  Those  of  them  that  took  no  earth 
quake  risks  don't  owe  a  cent. 

Please  don't  send  *  *  *'s  verses  to  me  if  you  can  decently 
decline.  I  should  be  sorry  to  find  them  bad,  and  my  loath 
ing  of  the  Whitmaniacal  "form"  is  as  deep  as  yours.  Per 
haps  I  should  find  them  good  otherwise,  but  the  probability 
is  so  small  that  I  don't  want  to  take  the  chance. 

*  *  * 

I've  just  finished  reading  the  first  proofs  of  "The  Cynic's 
Word  Book,"  which  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  are  to  bring 
out  in  October.  My  dealings  with  them  have  been  most 
pleasant  and  one  of  them  whom  I  met  the  other  day  at 
Atlantic  City  seems  a  fine  fellow. 

I  think  I  told  you  that  S.  O.  Howes,  of  Galveston,  Texas, 
is  compiling  a  book  of  essays  and  sich  from  some  of  my 
stuff  that  I  sent  him.  I've  left  the  selection  entirely  to  him 
and  presented  him  with  the  profits  if  there  be  any.  He'll 
probably  not  even  find  a  publisher.  He  has  the  work  about 
half  done.  By  the  way,  he  is  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  you. 
For  that  I  like  him,  and  for  much  else. 

I  mean  to  stay  here  all  summer  if  I  die  for  it,  as  I  prob 
ably  shall.  Luck  and  love  to  you. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
*•»*•»«•» 

The  Army  and    DEAR  MR.  CAHILL, 

Washington^,  c]      I  am  more  sorry  than  I  can  say  to  be  unable  to  send  you 
June  20, 1906.  the  C0py  Of  tne  Builder's  Review  that  you  kindly  sent  me. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         1  23 

But  before  receiving  your  note  I  had,  in  my  own  interest, 
searched  high  and  low  for  it,  in  vain.  Somebody  stole  it 
from  my  table.  I  especially  valued  it  after  the  catastrophe, 
but  should  have  been  doubly  pleased  to  have  it  for  you. 
\  It  was  indeed  a  rough  deal  you  San  Franciscans  got.  I 
had  always  expected  to  go  back  to  the  good  old  town  some 
day,  but  I  have  no  desire  to  see  the  new  town,  if  there  is  to 
be  one.  I  fear  the  fire  consumed  even  the  ghosts  that  used 
to  meet  me  at  every  street  corner  —  ghosts  of  dear  dead 
friends,  oh,  so  many  of  them  !  ^ 

Please  accept  my  sympathy  for  your  losses.  I  too  am  a 
"sufferer,"  a  whole  edition  of  my  latest  book,  plates  and 
all,  having  gone  up  in  smoke  and  many  of  my  friends  being 
now  in  the  "dependent  class/'  It  hit  us  all  pretty  hard,  I 
guess,  wherever  we  happened  to  be. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


DEAR  GEORGE, 

*  *  * 

If  your  neighbor  Carmelites  are  really  "normal"  and  Washington,  D.  c., 
respectable  I'm  sorry  for  you.  They  will  surely  (remaining  i 
cold  sober  themselves)   drive  you  to  drink.  Their  sort 
affects  me  that  way.  God  bless  the  crank  and  the  curio!  — 
what  would  life  in  this  desert  be  without  its  mullahs  and 
its  dervishes?  A  matter  of  merchants  and  camel  drivers  — 
no  one  to  laugh  with  and  at. 

Did  you  see  Gorky's  estimate  of  us  in  "Appleton's"? 
Having  been  a  few  weeks  in  the  land,  whose  language  he 
knows  not  a  word  of,  he  knows  (by  intuition  of  genius  and 
a  wee-bit.  help  from  Gaylord  Wilshire  and  his  gang)  all 
about  us,  and  tells  it  in  generalities  of  vituperation  as  ap- 


1 24         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

plicable  to  one  country  as  to  another.  He's  a  dandy  bomb- 
thrower,  but  he  handles  the  stink-pot  only  indifferently 
well.  He  should  write  (for  "The  Cosmopolitan")  on  "The 
Treason  of  God. " 

Sorry  you  didn't  like  my  remarks  in  that  fool  "sympo 
sium.  "  If  I  said  enough  to  make  it  clear  that  I  don't  care  a 
damn  for  any  of  the  matters  touched  upon,  nor  for  the  fel 
lows  who  do  care,  I  satisfied  my  wish.  It  was  not  intended 
to  be  an  "argument"  at  all  —  at  least  not  on  my  part;  I 
don't  argue  with  babes  and  sucklings.  Hunter  is  a  decentish 
fellow,  for  a  dreamer,  but  the  Hillquit  person  is  a  humorless 
anarchist.  When  I  complimented  him  on  the  beauty  of  his 
neck  and  expressed  the  hope  of  putting  a  nice,  new  rope 
about  it  he  nearly  strangled  on  the  brandy  that  I  was  put 
ting  down  it  at  the  hotel  bar.  And  it  wasn't  with  merri 
ment.  His  anarchist  sentiments  were  all  cut  out. 

I'm  not  familiar  with  the  poetry  of  William  Vaughan 
Moody.  Can  you  "put  me  on"? 

I'm  sending  you  an  odd  thing  by  Eugene  Wood,  of  Niag 
ara  Falls,  where  I  met  him  two  or  three  years  ago.  I'm  sure 
you  will  appreciate  it.  The  poor  chap  died  the  other  day 
and  might  appropriately  —  as  he  doubtless  will  —  lie  in  a 
neglected  grave.  You  may  return  the  book  when  you  have 
read  it  enough.  I'm  confident  you  never  heard  of  it. 

Enclosed  is  your  sonnet,  with  a  few  suggestions  of  no  im 
portance.  I  had  not  space  on  it  to  say  that  the  superfluity 
of  superlatives  noted,  is  accentuated  by  the  words  "west" 
and  "quest"  immediately  following,  making  a  lot  of 
"ests."  The  verses  are  pleasing,  but  if  any  villain  prefer 
them  to  "In  Extremis"  may  he  bite  himself  with  a  Snake! 

If  you'll  send  me  that  shuddery  thing  on  Fear  —  with  the 
"  clangor  of  ascending  chains  "  line  —  and  one  or  two  others 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         125 

that  you'd  care  to  have  in  a  magazine,  I'll  try  them  on 
Maxwell.  I  suspect  he  will  fall  dead  in  the  reading,  or  pos 
sibly  dislocate  the  jaw  of  him  with  a  yawn,  but  even  so  you 
will  not  have  written  in  vain. 

Have  you  tried  anything  on  "  Munsey  "  ?  Bob  Davis  is  the 
editor,  and  we  talked  you  over  at  dinner  (where  would  you 
could  have  been). I  thinkhe values  myjudgment  a  little.*  *  * 

I  wish  I  could  be  blown  upon  by  your  Carmel  sea-breeze; 
the  weather  here  is  wicked!  I  don't  even  canoe. 

My  " Cynic"  book  is  due  in  October.  Shall  send  it  to  you. 
Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

£•»«+»  Jf» 

DEAR  GEORGE, 
Both  your  letters  at  hand. 


*  *  * 


Be  a  "magazine  poet"  all  you  can  —  that  is  the  shortest  Washington, D. c. 

-,  .    .  i      11  i  11      i    September  28, 

road  to  recognition,  and  all  our  greater  poets  have  travelled  i906. 
it.  You  need  not  compromise  with  your  conscience,  how 
ever,  by  writing  "magazine  poetry."  You  couldn't. 

What's  your  objection  to  *  *  *  ?  I  don't  observe  that 
it  is  greatly  worse  than  others  of  its  class.  But  a  fellow  who 
has  for  nigh  upon  twenty  years  written  for  yellow  news 
papers  can't  be  expected  to  say  much  that's  edifying  on 
that  subject.  So  I  dare  say  I'm  wrong  in  my  advice  about 
the  kind  of  swine  for  your  pearls.  There  are  probably  more 
than  the  two  kinds  of  pigs  —  live  ones  and  dead  ones. 

Yes,  I'm  a  colonel  —  in  Pennsylvania  Avenue.  In  the 
neighborhood  of  my  tenement  I'm  a  Mister.  At  my  club 
I'm  a  major  —  which  is  my  real  title  by  an  act  of  Congress. 
I  suppressed  it  in  California,  but  couldn't  here,  where  I  run 
with  the  military  gang. 


126         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

You  need  not  blackguard  your  poem, "A  Visitor,"  though 
I  could  wish  you  had  not  chosen  blank  verse.  That  form 
seems  to  me  suitable  (in  serious  verse)  only  to  lofty,  not 
lowly,  themes.  Anyhow,  I  always  expect  something  pretty 
high  when  I  begin  an  unknown  poem  in  blank.  Moreover,  it 
is  not  your  best "  medium. "  Your  splendid  poem,"  Music," 
does  not  wholly  commend  itself  to  me  for  that  reason.  May 
I  say  that  it  is  a  little  sing-songy  — the  lines  monotonous 
ly  alike  in  their  caesural  pauses  and  some  of  their  other 
features  ? 

By  the  way,  I'd  like  to  see  what  you  could  do  in  more  un- 
simple  meters  than  the  ones  that  you  handle  so  well.  The 
wish  came  to  me  the  other  day  in  reading  Lanier's  "The 
Marshes  of  Glynn  "  and  some  of  his  other  work.  Lanier  did 
not  often  equal  his  master,  Swinburne,  in  getting  the  most 
out  of  the  method,  but  he  did  well  in  the  poem  mentioned. 
Maybe  you  could  manage  the  dangerous  thing.  It  would  be 
worth  doing  and  is,  therefore,  worth  trying. 

Thank  you  for  the  Moody  book,  which  I  will  return.  He 
pleaseth  me  greatly  and  I  could  already  fill  pages  with 
analyses  of  him  for  the  reasons  therefore.  But  for  you  to  say 
that  he  has  you  "skinned"  —  that  is  magnanimity.  An  ex 
cellent  thing  in  poets,  I  grant  you,  and  a  rare  one.  There  is 
something  about  him  and  his  book  in  the  current  "Atlan 
tic,  "  by  May  Sinclair,  who,  I  dare  say,  has  never  heard  of 
you.  Unlike  you,  she  thinks  his  dramatic  work  the  best  of 
what  he  does.  I've  not  seen  that.  To  be  the  best  it  must  be 
mighty  good. 

Yes,  poor  White's  poetry  is  all  you  say  —  and  worse,  but, 
faith!  he  "had  it  in  him."  What  struck  me  was  his  candid 
apotheosis  of  piracy  on  the  high  seas.  I'd  hate  the  fellow 
who  hadn't  some  sneaking  sympathy  with  that— as  Goethe 


T'he  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce        127 

confessed  to  some  sympathy  with  every  vice.  Nobody'll  ever 
hear  of  White,  but  (pray  observe,  ambitious  bard!)  he  isn't 
caring.  How  wise  are  the  dead! 

*  *  * 

My  friend  Howes,  of  Galveston,  has,  I  think,  nearly  fin 
ished  compiling  his  book  of  essaylets  from  my  stuff.  Neale 
has  definitely  decided  to  bring  out  "The  Monk  and  the 
Hangman's  Daughter."  He  has  the  plates  of  my  two  luck 
less  Putnam  books,  and  is  figuring  on  my  "  complete  works," 
to  be  published  by  subscription.  I  doubt  if  he  will  under 
take  it  right  away. 

Au  reste,  I'm  in  good  health  and  am  growing  old  not  alto 
gether  disgracefully.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

&&  &&  && 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

I'm  pained  by  your  comments  on  my  book.  I  always  feel  TheAr™y ,and 
that  way  when  praised  —  "just  plunged  in  a  gulf  of  dark  Washington, 
despair"  to  think  that  I  took  no  more  trouble  to  make  the 
commendation  truer.  I  shall  try  harder  with  the  Howes 
book. 


*  *  * 


I  can't  supply  the  missing  link  between  pages  101  and  102 
of  the  "Word  Book,"  having  destroyed  the  copy  and 
proofs.  Supply  it  yourself. 

You  err:  the  book  is  getting  me  a  little  glory,  but  that 
will  be  all  —  it  will  have  no  sale,  for  it  has  no  slang,  no 
"dialect"  and  no  grinning  through  a  horse-collar.  By  the 
way,  please  send  me  any  "notices"  of  it  that  you  may 

chance  to  see  out  there. 

*  *  * 

I've  done  a  ghost  story  for  the  January  "Cosmopolitan," 


128         'The  Letters  of  -Ambrose  fierce 

which  I  think  pretty  well  of.  That's  all  I've  done  for  more 
than  two  months. 

I  return  your  poem  and  the  Moody  book.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Army  and    DEAR  GEORGE, 

Washington'     Your  letter  of  Nov.  28  has  just  come  to  my  breakfast 
December^,  table.  It  is  the  better  part  of  the  repast. 

*  *  * 

No,  my  dictionary  will  not  sell.  I  so  assured  the  pub 
lishers. 

I  lunched  with  Neale  the  other  day  —  he  comes  down  here 
once  a  month.  His  magazine  (I  think  he  is  to  call  it  "The 
Southerner,"  or  something  like  that)  will  not  get  out  this 
month,  as  he  expected  it  to.  And  for  an  ominous  reason: 
He  had  relied  largely  on  Southern  writers,  and  finds  that 
they  can't  write!  He  assures  me  that  it  will  appear  this  win 
ter  and  asked  me  not  to  withdraw  your  poem  and  my  re 
marks  on  it  unless  you  asked  it.  So  I  did  not. 

*  *  * 

In  your  character  of  bookseller  carrying  a  stock  of  my 
books  you  have  a  new  interest.  May  Heaven  promote  you 
to  publisher! 

Thank  you  for  the  Moody  books  —  which  I'll  return  soon. 
"The  Masque  of  Judgment"  has  some  great  work  in  its 
final  pages  —  quite  as  great  as  anything  in  Faust.  The  pas 
sages  that  you  marked  are  good  too,  but  some  of  them 
barely  miss  being  entirely  satisfying.  It  would  trouble  you 
to  find  many  such  passages  in  the  other  book,  which  is, 
moreover,  not  distinguished  for  clarity.  I  found  myself 
frequently  prompted  to  ask  the  author:  "What  the  devil 
are  you  driving  at?" 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         129 

I'm  going  to  finish  this  letter  at  home  where  there  is  less 
talk  of  the  relative  military  strength  of  Japan  and  San 
Francisco  and  the  latter  power's  newest  and  most  grievous 
affliction,  Teddy  Roosevelt.  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

P.  S.  Guess  the  letter  is  finished. 


DEAR  GEORGE, 
I  suppose  I  owe  you  letters  and  letters  —  but  you  don't  The  Army  and 

•       i       i       1-1  -i  ir  MI  Navy  Club, 

particularly  like  to  write  letters  yourself,  so  you  11  under-  Washington,  D.  c., 
stand.  *  *  * 

Hanging  before  me  is  a  water-color  of  a  bit  of  Carmel 
Beach,  by  Chris  Jorgensen,  for  which  I  blew  in  fifty  dol 
lars  the  other  day.  He  had  a  fine  exhibition  of  his  Cali- 
fornian  work  here.  I  wanted  to  buy  it  all,  but  compromised 
with  my  desire  by  buying  what  I  could.  The  picture  has  a 
sentimental  value  to  me,  apart  from  its  artistic. 

*  *  * 

I  am  to  see  Neale  in  a  few  days  and  shall  try  to  learn 
definitely  when  his  magazine  is  to  come  out  —  if  he  knows. 
If  he  does  not  I'll  withdraw  your  poem.  Next  month  he  is 
to  republish  "The  Monk  and  the  Hangman's  Daughter," 
with  a  new  preface  which  somebody  will  not  relish.  I'll  send 
you  a  copy.  The  Howes  book  is  on  its  travels  among  the 
publishers,  and  so,  doubtless,  will  long  continue. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

£*»  £*»  £€» 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

Our  letters  "crossed"  -  a  thing  that  "happens"  oftener 
than  not  in  my  correspondence,  when  neither  person  has  Washington,  D.  c., 

r  i  •  T  1  February  5, 

written  for  a  long  time.  I  have  drawn  some  interesting  in-  1907 


130         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

ferences  from  this  fact,  but  have  no  time  now  to  state 
them.  Indeed,  I  have  no  time  to  do  anything  but  send  you 
the  stuff  on  the  battle  of  Shiloh  concerning  which  you 
inquire. 

I  should  write  it  a  little  differently  now,  but  it  may  enter 
tain  you  as  it  is.  *  *  * 

Sincerely  yours, 

*  *  *  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

!*».*»«•» 
Washington,    MY  DEAR  GEORGE, 

1907!  If  you  desert  Carmel  I  shall  destroy  my  Jorgensen  pic 
ture,  build  a  bungalow  in  the  Catskills  and  cut  out  Cali 
fornia  forever.  (Those  are  the  footprints  of  my  damned 
canary,  who  will  neither  write  himself  nor  let  me  write. 
Just  now  he  is  perched  on  my  shoulder,  awaiting  the  com 
mand  to  sing  —  then  he  will  deafen  me  with  a  song  without 
sense.  O  he's  a  poet  all  right.) 

I  entirely  approve  your  allegiance  to  Mammon.  If  I'd  had 
brains  enough  to  make  a  decision  like  that  I  could  now,  at 
65,  have  the  leisure  to  make  a  good  book  or  two  before  I  go 
to  the  waste-dump.  *  *  *  Get  yourself  a  fat  bank  ac 
count —  there's  no  such  friend  as  a  bank  account,  and  the 
greatest  book  is  a  check-book;  "You  may  lay  to  that!"  as 
one  of  Stevenson's  pirates  puts  it. 

*  *  * 

No,  sir,  your  boss  will  not  bring  you  East  next  June;  or  if 
he  does  you  will  not  come  to  Washington.  How  do  I  know? 
I  don't  know  how  I  know,  but  concerning  all  (and  they  are 
many)  who  were  to  come  from  California  to  see  me  I  have 
never  once  failed  in  my  forecast  of  their  coming  or  not  com 
ing.  Even  in  the  case  of*  *  *,  although  I  wrote  to  you,  and 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         131 

to  her,  as  if  I  expected  her,  I  said  to  one  of  my  friends: 
"  She  will  not  come."  I  don't  think  it's  a  gift  of  divination  — 
it  just  happens,  somehow.  Yours  is  not  a  very  good  ex 
ample,  for  you  have  not  said  you  were  coming,  "sure." 

So  your  colony  of  high-brows  is  re-establishing  itself  at 
the  old  stand  —  Piedmont.  *  *  *  But  Piedmont  —  it  must 
be  in  the  heart  of  Oakland.  I  could  no  longer  shoot  rabbits 
in  the  gulch  back  of  it  and  sleep  under  a  tree  to  shoot  more 
in  the  morning.  Nor  could  I  traverse  that  long  ridge  with 
various  girls.  I  dare  say  there's  a  boulevard  running  the 
length  of  it, 

"A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand." 

If  I  could  stop  you  from  reading  that  volume  of  old 
"Argonauts"  I'd  do  so,  but  I  suppose  an  injunction  would 
not  "lie."  Yes,  I  was  a  slovenly  writer  in  those  days, 
though  enough  better  than  my  neighbors  to  have  attracted 
my  own  attention.  My  knowledge  of  English  was  imper 
fect  "a  whole  lot."  Indeed,  my  intellectual  status  (what 
ever  it  may  be,  and  God  knows  it's  enough  to  make  me 
blush)  was  of  slow  growth  —  as  was  my  moral.  I  mean,  I 
had  not  literary  sincerity. 

Yes,  I  wrote  of  Swinburne  the  distasteful  words  that  you 
quote.  But  they  were  not  altogether  untrue.  He  used  to  set 
my  teeth  on  edge  —  could  not  stand  still  a  minute,  and  kept 
you  looking  for  the  string  that  worked  his  legs  and  arms. 
And  he  had  a  weak  face  that  gave  you  the  memory  of  chin- 
lessness.  But  I  have  long  renounced  the  views  that  I  once 
held  about  his  poetry  —  held,  or  thought  I  held.  I  don't 
remember,  though,  if  it  was  as  lately  as  '78  that  I  held 
them. 

You  write  of  Miss  Dawson.  Did  she  survive  the  'quake? 


132         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

And  do  you  know  about  her?  Not  a  word  of  her  has  reached 
me.  Notwithstanding  your  imported  nightingale  (upon 
which  I  think  you  should  be  made  to  pay  a  stiff  duty)  your 
Ina  Coolbrith  poem  is  so  good  that  I  want  to  keep  it  if  you 
have  another  copy.  I  find  no  amendable  faults  in  it.  *  *  * 
The  fellow  that  told  you  that  I  was  an  editor  of  "The 
Cosmopolitan"  has  an  impediment  in  his  veracity.  I  simply 
write  for  it,  *  *  *,  and  the  less  of  my  stuff  the  editor  uses 
the  better  I'm  pleased. 

O,  you  ask  about  the  "Ursus-Aborn-Gorgias-Agrestis- 
Polyglot"  stuff.  It  was  written  by  James  F.  ("Jimmie") 
Bowman  —  long  dead.  (See  a  pretty  bad  sonnet  on  page  94, 
"  Shapes  of  Clay. ")  My  only  part  in  the  matter  was  to  sug 
gest  the  papers  and  discuss  them  with  him  over  many  mugs 
of  beer. 


*  *  * 


By  the  way,  Neale  says  he  gets  almost  enough  inquiries 
for  my  books  (from  San  Francisco)  to  justify  him  in  repub- 

lishing  them. 

*  *  * 

That's  all  —  and,  as  George  Augustus  Sala  wrote  of  a  chew 
of  tobacco  as  the  price  of  a  certain  lady's  favors,  "God 
knows  it's  enough!"  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Army  and    DEAR  GEORGE, 

Washington,  D.  c.'  I  have  your  letter  of  the  13  th.  The  enclosed  slip  from  the 
April  23,  pacific  Monthly  (thank  you  for  it)  is  amusing.  Yes,  *  *  * 
is  an  insufferable  pedant,  but  I  don't  at  all  mind  his  ped 
antry.  Any  critic  is  welcome  to  whack  me  all  he  likes  if  he 
will  append  to  his  remarks  (as  *  *  *  had  the  thoughtful- 
ness  to  do)  my  definition  of  "Critic"  from'  the  "Word 
Book." 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         133 

Please  don't  bother  to  write  me  when  the  spirit  does  not 
move  you  thereto.  You  and  I  don't  need  to  write  to  each 
other  for  any  other  reason  than  that  we  want  to.  As  to 
coming  East,  abstain,  O,  abstain  from  promises,  lest  you 
resemble  all  my  other  friends  out  there,  who  promise 
always  and  never  come.  It  would  be  delightful  to  see  you 
here,  but  I  know  how  those  things  arrange  themselves  with 
out  reference  to  our  desires.  We  do  as  we  must,  not  as  we 
will. 

I  think  that  uncle  of  yours  must  be  a  mighty  fine  fellow. 
Be  good  to  him  and  don't  kick  at  his  service,  even  when 
you  feel  the  chain.  It  beats  poetry  for  nothing  a  year. 

Did  you  get  the  "Shiloh"  article?  I  sent  it  to  you.  I  sent 
it  also  to  Paul  Elder  &  Co.  (New  York  branch)  for  their 
book  of  "Western  Classics,"  and  hope  it  will  meet  their 
need.  They  wanted  something,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as 
good,  with  a  little  revision,  as  any  of  my  stuff  that  I  con 
trol.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  wise  to  offer  them  for  repub- 
lication  "In  the  Midst  of  Life"?  It  is  now  "out  of  print" 

and  on  my  hands. 

*  *  * 

I'm  glad  of  your  commendation  of  my  "Cosmopolitan" 
stuff.  They  don't  give  me  much  of  a  "show"  —  the  editor 
doesn't  love  me  personally  as  he  should,  and  lets  me  do 
only  enough  to  avert  from  himself  the  attention  of  Mr. 
Hearst  and  that  gentleman's  interference  with  the  mutual 
admiration  game  as  played  in  the  "Cosmopolitan"  office. 
As  I'm  rather  fond  of  light  work  I'm  not  shrieking. 


*  *  * 


You  don't  speak  of  getting  the  book  that  I  sent,  "The 
Monk  and  the  Hangman's  Daughter"— new  edition.'Tisn't 
as  good  as  the  old. 


*  *  * 


134         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

I'm  boating  again.  How  I  should  like  to  put  out  my  prow 
on  Monterey  Bay.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Army  and 
Navy  Club, 

Washington,  D.  c.,  Your  letter,  with  the  yerba  buena  and  the  spray  of  red- 
"1907!  wood,  came  like  a  breeze  from  the  hills.  And  the  photo 
graphs  are  most  pleasing.  I  note  that  Sloot's  moustache  is 
decently  white  at  last,  as  becomes  a  fellow  of  his  years.  I 
dare  say  his  hair  is  white  too,  but  I  can't  see  under  his  hat. 
And  I  think  he  never  removes  it.  That  backyard  of  yours  is 
a  wonder,  but  I  sadly  miss  the  appropriate  ash-heaps,  tin 
cans,  old  packing-boxes,  and  so  forth.  And  that  palm  in 
front  of  the  house  —  gracious,  how  she's  grown!  Well,  it  has 
been  more  than  a  day  growing,  and  I've  not  watched  it 
attentively. 

I  hope  you'll  have  a  good  time  in  Yosemite,  but  Sloots  is 
an  idiot  not  to  go  with  you  —  nineteen  days  is  as  long  as 
anybody  would  want  to  stay  there. 

I  saw  a  little  of  Phyllis  Partington  in  New  York.  She  told 
me  much  of  you  and  seems  to  be  fond  of  you.  That  is  very 
intelligent  of  her,  don't  you  think? 

No,  I  shall  not  wait  until  I'm  rich  before  visiting  you. 
I've  no  intention  of  being  rich,  but  do  mean  to  visit  you  — 
some  day.  Probably  when  Grizzly  has  visited  me.  Love  to 
you  all.  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


rmy  and  Navy  Club,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

Washington,  D.  C.,  ^    %    ^ 

June  25, 

19°7-  So  *  *  *  showed  you  his  article  on  me.  He  showed  it  to 
me  also,  and  some  of  it  amused  me  mightily,  though  I 
didn't  tell  him  so.  That  picture  of  me  as  a  grouchy  and  dis- 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         135 

appointed  old  man  occupying  the  entire  cave  of  Adullam  is 
particularly  humorous,  and  so  poetic  that  I  would  not  for 
the  world  "cut  it  out."  *  *  *  seems  incapable  (like  a  good 
many  others)  of  estimating  success  in  other  terms  than 
those  of  popularity.  He  gives  a  rather  better  clew  to  his  own 
character  than  to  mine.  The  old  man  is  fairly  well  pleased 
with  the  way  that  he  has  played  the  game,  and  with  his 
share  of  the  stakes,  thank'ee. 

I  note  with  satisfaction  your  satisfaction  with  my  article 
on  you  and  your  poem.  I'll  correct  the  quotation  about  the 
"timid  sapphires"  —  don't  know  how  I  happened  to  leave 
out  the  best  part  of  it.  But  I  left  out  the  line  about  "har 
lot's  blood"  because  I  didn't  (and  don't)  think  a  magazine 
would  "stand  for  it"  if  I  called  the  editor's  attention  to  it. 
You  don't  know  what  magazines  are  if  you  haven't  tested 
them.  However,  I'll  try  it  on  Chamberlain  if  you  like.  And 

I'll  put  in  "twilight  of  the  year"  too. 

*  *  * 

It's  pleasing  to  know  that  you've  "cut  out"  your  clerical 
work  if  you  can  live  without  it.  Now  for  some  great  poetry! 
Carmel  has  a  fascination  for  me  too  —  because  of  your  let 
ters.  Ifldidnot  fear  illness  —  a  return  of  my  old  complaint  — 
I'd  set  out  for  it  at  once.  I've  nothing  to  do  that  would 
prevent  —  about  two  day's  work  a  month.^But  I'd  never  \ 
set  foot  in  San  Francisco.  Of  all  the  Sodoms  and  Gomor- 
rahs  in  our  modern  world  it  is  the  worst.  There  are  not  ten 
righteous  (and  courageous)  men  there.  It  needs  another 
quake,  another  whiff  of  fire,  and  —  more  than  all  else  —  a 
steady  tradewind  of  grapeshot.  When  *  *  *  gets  done 
blackguarding  New  York  (as  it  deserves)  and  has  shaken 
the  dung  of  San  Francisco  from  his  feet  I'm  going  to  "sick  \ 
him  onto"  that  moral  penal  colony  of  the  world.  *  *  * 


136         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

I've  two  "books"  seeking  existence  in  New  York  —  the 
Howes  book  and  some  satires.  Guess  they  are  cocks  that 
will  not  fight.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

I  was  sixty-five  yesterday. 


Washington,  D.  C,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

"1907!  I've  just  finished  reading  proofs  of  my  stuff  about  you 
and  your  poem.  Chamberlain,  as  I  apprised  you,  has  it 
slated  for  September.  But  for  that  month  also  he  has  slated 
a  longish  spook  story  of  mine,  besides  my  regular  stuff. 
Not  seeing  how  he  can  run  it  all  in  one  issue,  I  have  asked 
him  to  run  your  poem  (with  my  remarks)  and  hold  the 
spook  yarn  till  some  other  time.  I  hope  he'll  do  so,  but  if  he 
doesn't,  don't  think  it  my  fault.  An  editor  never  does  as 
one  wants  him  to.  I  inserted  in  my  article  another  quota 
tion  or  two,  and  restored  some  lines  that  I  had  cut  out  of 
the  quotations  to  save  space. 
It's  grilling  hot  here  —  I  envy  you  your  Carmel. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

*•»£•»  £» 

The  Army  and    DEAR  GEORGE, 

Washington!  DJC!  I  guess  several  of  your  good  letters  are  unanswered,  as 
are  many  others  of  other  correspondents.  I've  been  gadding 
a  good  deal  lately  —  to  New  York  principally.  When  I  want 

a  royal  good  time  I  go  to  New  York;  and  I  get  it. 

*  *  * 

As  to  Miller  being  "about  the  same  age"  as  I,  why,  no. 
The  rascal  is  long  past  seventy,  although  nine  or  ten  years 
ago  he  wrote  from  Alaska  that  he  was  "in  the  middle 
fifties."  I've  known  him  for  nearly  thirty  years  and  he 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         137 

can't  fool  me  with  his  youthful  airs  and  tales.  May  he  live 
long  and  repent. 

Thank  you  for  taking  the  trouble  to  send  Conan  Doyle's  j 
opinion  of  me.  No,  it  doesn't  turn  my  head;  I  can  show  you 
dozens  of  "appreciations"  from  greater  and  more  famous 
men.  I  return  it  to  you  corrected  —  as  he  really  wrote  it. 
Here  it  is: 

"Praise  from  Sir  Hugo  is  praise  indeed."  In  "Through 
the  Magic  Door,"  an  exceedingly  able  article  on  short 
stories  that  have  interested  him,  Conan  Doyle  pays  the  fol 
lowing  well-deserved  tribute  to  Ambrose  Bierce,  whose 
wonderful  short  stories  have  so  often  been  praised  in  these 
columns:  "Talking  of  weird  American  stories,  have  you 
ever  read  any  of  the  works  of  Ambrose  Bierce?  I  have  one 
of  his  books  before  me,  'In  the  Midst  of  Life.'  This  man 
(has)*  had  a  flavor  quite  his  own,  and  (is)*  was  a  great 
artist.  It  is  not  cheerful  reading,  but  it  leaves  its  mark  upon 
you,  and  that  is  the  proof  of  good  work." 

Thank  you  also  for  the  Jacobs  story,  which  I  will  read.    \ 
As  a  humorist  he  is  no  great  thing. 

I've  not  read  your  Bohemian  play  to  a  finish  yet,  *  *  *. 
By  the  way,  I've  always  wondered  why  they  did  not  "put 
on"  Comus.  Properly  done  it  would  be  great  woodland 
stuff.  Read  it  with  a  view  to  that  and  see  if  I'm  not  right. 
And  then  persuade  them  to  "stage  it"  next  year. 
^I'm  being  awfully  pressed  to  return  to  California.  No  San 
Francisco  for  me,  but  Carmel  sounds  good^>For  about  how 
much  could  I  get  ground  and  build  a  bungalow  —  for  one? 
That's  a  pretty  indefinite  question;  but  then  the  will  to  go 
is  a  little  hazy  at  present.  It  consists,  as  yet,  only  of  the 
element  of  desire.  *  *  * 

""Crossed  out  by  A.  B. 


138         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

The  "Cosmopolitan,"  with  your  poem,  has  not  come  to 
hand  but  is  nearly  due  —  I'm  a  little  impatient  —  eager  to 
see  the  particular  kind  of  outrage  Chamberlain's  artist  has 
wrought  upon  it.  He  (C.)  asked  for  your  address  the  other 
day;  so  he  will  doubtless  send  you  a  check. 


*  *  * 


Now  please  go  to  work  at  "Lilith";  it's  bound  to  be  great 
stuff,  for  you'll  have  to  imagine  it  all.  I'm  sorry  that  any 
body  ever  invented  Lilith;  it  makes  her  too  much  of  an  his 
torical  character. 

*  *  * 

"The  other  half  of  the  Devil's  Dictionary"  is  in  the  fluid 
state  —  not  even  liquid.  And  so,  doubtless,  it  will  remain. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

£*»£«*  S^ 
The  Army  and    MY  DEAR  GEORGE, 

ngtonfo.  c.',  I'm  awfully  glad  that  you  don't  mind  Chamberlain's  yel- 
Septembery,  jow  nonsense  in  coupling  Ella's  name  with  yours.  But 
when  you  read  her  natural  opinion  of  your  work  you'll 
acquit  her  of  complicity  in  the  indignity.  I'm  sending  a  few 
things  from  Hearst's  newspapers  —  written  by  the  slangers, 
dialecters  and  platitudinarians  of  the  staff,  and  by  some  of 
the  swine  among  the  readers. 

Note  the  deliberate  and  repeated  lying  of  Brisbane  in 
quoting  me  as  saying  the  "Wine"  is  "the  greatest  poem 
ever  written  in  America."  Note  his  dishonesty  in  confess 
ing  that  he  has  commendatory  letters,  yet  not  publishing  a 
single  one  of  them.  But  the  end  is  not  yet  —  my  inning  is  to 
come,  in  the  magazine.  Chamberlain  (who  professes  an  en 
thusiastic  admiration  of  the  poem)  promises  me  a  free  hand 
in  replying  to  these  ignorant  asses.  If  he  does  not  give  it  to 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         139 

me  I  quit.  I've  writ  a  paragraph  or  two  for  the  November 
number  (too  late  now  for  the  October)  by  way  of  warning 
them  what  they'll  get  when  December  comes.  So  you  see 
you  must  patiently  endure  the  befouling  till  then. 

*  *  * 

Did  you  notice  in  the  last  line  of  the  "Wine"  that  I  re 
stored  the  word  "smile"  from  your  earlier  draft  of  the 
verses  ?  In  one  of  your  later  (I  don't  remember  if  in  the  last) 
you  had  it  "sigh."  That  was  wrong;  "smile"  seems  to  me 
infinitely  better  as  a  definition  of  the  poet's  attitude  toward 
his  dreams.  So,  considering  that  I  had  a  choice,  I  chose  it. 
Hope  you  approve. 

I  am  serious  in  wishing  a  place  in  Carmel  as  a  port  of 
refuge  from  the  storms  of  age.  I  don't  know  that  I  shall 
ever  live  there,  but  should  like  to  feel  that  I  can  if  I  want 
to.  Next  summer  I  hope  to  go  out  there  and  spy  out  the 
land,  and  if  I  then  "have  the  price"  (without  sacrificing 
any  of  my  favorite  stocks)  I  shall  buy.  I  don't  care  for  the 
grub  question  —  should  like  to  try  the  simple  life,  for  I 
have  already  two  gouty  finger  points  as  a  result  of  the  other 
kind  of  life.  (Of  course  if  they  all  get  that  way  I  shan't 
mind,  for  I  love  uniformity.)  Probably  if  I  attempted  to 
live  in  Carmel  I  should  have  asthma  again,  from  which  I 
have  long  been  free.  *  *  * 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

£»£<»£•» 

MY  DEAR  MORROW, 
Whether  you  "  prosper  "  or  not  I'm  glad  you  write  instead  Army and  Nayy  CIub> 

r  i  •  T  i  i  1  •         r  i-  i  r   i  i         Washington,  D.  C., 

or  teaching.  I  have  done  a  bit  or  teaching  myself,  but  as  the  October  9, 
tuition  was  gratuitous  I  could  pick  my  pupils;  so  it  was  a  I9°7< 
labor  of  love.  I'm  pretty  well  satisfied  with  the  results. 


1 4o         *The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

No,  I'm  not  "toiling"  much  now.  I've  written  all  I  care 
to,  and  having  a  pretty  easy  berth  (writing  for  The  Cos 
mopolitan  only,  and  having  no  connection  with  Mr. 
Hearst's  newspapers)  am  content. 

I  have  observed  your  story  in  Success,  but  as  I  never  never 
(sic)  read  serials  shall  await  its  publication  in  covers  before 
making  a  meal  of  it. 

You  seem  to  be  living  at  the  old  place  in  Vallejo  Street,  so 
I  judge  that  it  was  spared  by  the  fire.  I  had  some  pretty 
good  times  in  that  house,  not  only  with  you  and  Mrs.  Mor 
row  (to  whom  my  love,  please)  but  with  the  dear  Hogan 
girls.  Poor  Flodie!  she  is  nearly  a  sole  survivor  now.  I 
wonder  if  she  ever  thinks  of  us. 

I  hear  from  California  frequently  through  a  little  group  of 
interesting  folk  who  foregather  at  Carmel  —  whither  I  shall 
perhaps  stray  some  day  and  there  leave  my  bones.  Mean 
time,  I  am  fairly  happy  here. 

I  wish  you  would  add  yourself  to  the  Carmel  crowd.  You 
would  be  a  congenial  member  of  the  gang  and  would  find 
them  worth  while.  You  must  know  George  Sterling:  he  is 
the  high  panjandrum  and  a  gorgeously  good  fellow.  Go  get 
thee  a  bungalow  at  Carmel,  which  is  indubitably  the 
charmingest  place  in  the  State! As  to  San  Francisco,  with 
its  labor-union  government,  its  thieves  and  other  impossi 
bilities,  I  could  not  be  drawn  into  it  by  a  team  of  behe- 
moths.\But  California  —  ah,  I  dare  not  permit  myself  to 
remember  it.  Yet  this  Eastern  country  is  not  without 
charm.  And  my  health  is  good  here,  as  it  never  was  there. 
Nothing  ails  me  but  age,  which  brings  its  own  cure. 

God  keep  thee!  —  go  and  live  at  Carmel. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         141 

JAMES  D.  BLAKE,  ESQ., 
DEAR  SIR: 

It  is  a  matter  of  no  great  importance  to  me,  but  the  re-  The  Army  and 
publication  of  the  foolish  books  that  you  mention  would  Washington  D  c 
not  be  agreeable  to  me.  They  have  no  kind  of  merit  or  October  29, 
interest.  One  of  them,  "The  Fiend's  Delight,"  was  pub-  I9°7' 
lished  against  my  protest;  the  utmost  concession  that  the 
compiler  and  publisher  (the  late  John  Camden  Hatten, 
London)  would  make  was  to  let  me  edit  his  collection  of  my 
stuff  and  write  a  preface.  You  would  pretty  surely  lose 
money  on  any  of  them. 

If  you  care  to  republish  anything  of  mine  you  would,  I  ; 
think,  do  better  with  "Black  Beetles  in  Amber,"  or 
"Shapes  of  Clay."  The  former  sold  well,  and  the  latter 
would,  I  think,  have  done  equally  well  if  the  earthquake- 
and-fire  had  not  destroyed  it,  including  the  plates.  Nearly 
all  of  both  books  were  sold  in  San  Francisco,  and  the  sold, 
as  well  as  the  unsold,  copies  —  I  mean  the  unsold  copies  of 
the  latter  —  perished  in  the  fire.  There  is  much  inquiry  for 
them  (mainly  from  those  who  lost  them)  and  I  am  told 
that  they  bring  fancy  prices.  You  probably  know  about 
that  better  than  I. 

I  should  be  glad  to  entertain  proposals  from  you  for  their 
republication  —  in  San  Francisco  —  and  should  not  be  ex 
acting  as  to  royalties,  and  so  forth. 

But  the  other  books  are  "youthful  indiscretions"  and  are  \ 
"better  dead."  Sincerely  yours,          AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

0^- *•»«•» 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

*  *  * 

The  Army  and 

Please  send  me  a  copy  of  the  new  edition  of  "The  Testi- 
mony."  I  borrowed  one  of  the  first  edition  to  give  away, 


1 42         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

and  want  to  replace  it.  Did  you  add  the  "Wine"  to  it?  I'd 
not  leave  off  the  indefinite  article  from  the  title  of  that;  it 
seems  to  dignify  the  tipple  by  hinting  that  it  was  no  ordi 
nary  tope.  It  may  have  been  witch-fermented. 

I  don't  "dislike"  the  line:  "So  terribly  that  brilliance 
shall  enhance";  it  seems  merely  less  admirable  than  the 
others.  Why  didn't  I  tell  you  so?  I  could  not  tell  you  all  I 
thought  of  the  poem  —  for  another  example,  how  I  loved 
the  lines: 

"Where  Dawn  upon  a  pansy's  breast  hath  laid 
A  single  tear,  and  whence  the  wind  hath  flown 
And  left  a  silence" 

*  *   * 

I'm  returning  you,  under  another  cover  (as  the  cere 
monial  slangers  say)  some  letters  that  have  come  to  me  and 
that  I  have  answered.  I  have  a  lot  more,  most  of  them 
abusive,  I  guess,  that  I'll  dig  out  later.  But  the  most  pleas 
ing  ones  I  can't  send,  for  I  sent  them  to  Brisbane  on  his 
promise  to  publish  them,  which  the  liar  did  not,  nor  has  he 
had  the  decency  to  return  them.  I'm  hardly  sorry,  for  it 
gave  me  good  reason  to  call  him  a  peasant  and  a  beast  of 
the  field.  I'm  always  grateful  for  the  chance  to  prod  some 
body. 


*  *  * 


I  detest  the  "limited  edition"  and  "autograph  copies" 
plan  of  publication,  but  for  the  sake  of  Howes,  who  has 
done  a  tremendous  lot  of  good  work  on  my  book,  have  as 
sented  to  Blake's  proposal  in  all  things  and  hope  to  be  able 
to  laugh  at  this  brilliant  example  of  the  "irony  of  fate." 
I've  refused  to  profit  in  any  way  by  the  book.  I  want 
Howes  to  "break  even"  for  his  labor. 

By  the  way,  Pollard  and  I  had  a  good  time  in  Galveston, 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         143 

and  on  the  way  I  took  in  some  of  my  old  battlefields.  At 
Galveston  they  nearly  killed  me  with  hospitality  —  so 
nearly  that  Pollard  fled.  I  returned  via  Key  West  and 
Florida. 

You'll  probably  see  Howes  next  Summer— I've  persuaded 
him  to  go  West  and  renounce  the  bookworm  habit  for  some 
other  folly.  Be  good  to  him;  he  is  a  capital  fellow  in  his  odd, 
amusing  way. 

I  didn't  know  there  was  an  American  edition  of  "The 
Fiends'  Delight."  Who  published  it  and  when? 

Congratulations  on  acceptance  of  "Tasso  and  Leonora." 
But  I  wouldn't  do  much  in  blank  verse  if  I  were  you.  It 
betrays  you  (somehow)  into  mere  straightaway  expression, 
and  seems  to  repress  in  you  the  glorious  abundance  of 
imagery  and  metaphor  that  enriches  your  rhyme- work. 
This  is  not  a  criticism,  particularly,  of  "Tasso,"  which  is 
good  enough  for  anybody,  but  —  well,  it's  just  so. 

I'm  not  doing  much.  My  stuff  in  the  Cosmo,  comes  last, 
and  when  advertisements  crowd  some  of  it  is  left  off.  Most 
of  it  gets  in  later  (for  of  course  I  don't  replace  it  with  more 
work)  but  it  is  sadly  antiquated.  My  checks,  though,  are 
always  up  to  date.  Sincerely*  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

*I  can  almost  say"sinecurely." 

*»*•»«»> 
MY  DEAR  GEORGE, 

I  have  just  come  upon  a  letter  of  yours  that  I  got  at  Gal-  The  Army  and 

j    /T   r         \    j-  j  11  -n         T?  •  Navy  Club, 

veston  and  (1  fear)  did  not  acknowledge.  But  Ive  written  Washington,  D.  c, 
you  since,  so  I  fancy  all  is  well.  {a™ary  I9> 

You  mention  that  sonnet  that  Chamberlain  asked  for. 
You  should  not  have  let  him  have  it  —  it  was,  as  you  say, 
the  kind  of  stuff  that  magazines  like.  Nay,  it  was  even 
better.  But  I  wish  you'd  sent  it  elsewhere.  You  owed  it  to 


i44         2%  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

me  not  to  let  the  Cosmopolitan's  readers  see  anything  of 
yours  (for  awhile,  at  least)  that  was  less  than  great.  Some 
thing  as  great  as  the  sonnet  that  you  sent  to  McClure's 
was  what  the  circumstances  called  for. 

"And  strict  concern  of  relativity"  —  O  bother!  that's  not 
poetry.  It's  the  slang  of  philosophy. 

I  am  still  awaiting  my  copy  of  the  new  "Testimony." 
That's  why  I'm  scolding.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Washington,  D.  c.'  I'm  an  age  acknowledging  your  letter;  but  then  you'd 
*  have  been  an  age  writing  it  if  you  had  not  done  it  for 
"Sloots."  And  the  other  day  I  had  one  from  him,  written 
in  his  own  improper  person. 

I  think  it  abominable  that  he  and  Carlt  have  to  work  so 
hard  —  at  their  age  —  and  I  quite  agree  with  George  Ster 
ling  that  Carlt  ought  to  go  to  Carmel  and  grow  potatoes. 
I'd  like  to  do  that  myself,  but  for  the  fact  that  so  many 
objectionable  persons  frequent  the  place:  *  *  *,  *  *  *  and 
the  like.  I'm  hoping,  however,  that  the  ocean  will  swallow 
*  *  *  and  be  unable  to  throw  him  up. 

I  trust  you'll  let  Sloots  "retire"  at  seventy,  which  is 
really  quite  well  along  in  life  toward  the  years  of  discretion 
and  the  age  of  consent.  But  when  he  is  retired  I  know  that 
he  will  bury  himself  in  the  redwoods  and  never  look  upon 
the  face  of  man  again.  That,  too,  I  should  rather  like  to  do 
myself—  for  a  few  months. 

I've  laid  out  a  lot  of  work  for  myself  this  season,  and 
doubt  if  I  shall  get  to  California,  as  I  had  hoped.  So  I  shall 
never,  never  see  you.  But  you  might  send  me  a  photograph. 

God  be  with  you.  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         145 

N.  B.  If  you  follow  the  pages  you'll  be  able  to  make  some  Washington,  D.  c., 
sense  of  this  screed.  1908."' 

MY  DEAR  GEORGE, 

I  am  sorry  to  learn  that  you  have  not  been  able  to  break 
your  commercial  chains,  since  you  wish  to,  though  I  don't 
at  all  know  that  they  are  bad  for  you.  I've  railed  at  mine 
all  my  life,  but  don't  remember  that  I  ever  made  any  good 
use  of  leisure  when  I  had  it  — unless  the  mere  "having  a 
good  time"  is  such.  I  remember  once  writing  that  one's 
career,  or  usefulness,  was  about  ended  when  one  thought 
less  about  how  best  to  do  his  work  than  about  the  hardship 
of  having  to  do  it.  I  might  have  said  the  hardship  of  having 
so  little  leisure  to  do  it.  As  I  grow  older  I  see  more  and  more 
clearly  the  advantages  of  disadvantage,  the  splendid  urge 
of  adverse  conditions,  the  uplifting  effect  of  repression.  , 
And  I'm  ashamed  to  note  how  little  /  profited  by  them.  I 
wasn't  the  right  kind,  that  is  all;  but  I  indulge  the  hope 
thatjyo^  are. 

No  I  don't  think  it  of  any  use,  your  trying  to  keep  *  *  * 
and  me  friends.  But  don't  let  that  interfere  with  your 
regard  for  him  if  you  have  it.  We  are  not  required  to  share 
one  another's  feelings  in  such  matters.  I  should  not  expect 
you  to  like  my  friends  nor  hate  my  enemies  if  they  seemed 
to  you  different  from  what  they  seem  to  me;  nor  would  I 
necessarily  follow  your  lead.  For  example,  I  loathe  your 
friend  *  *  *  and  expect  his  safe  return  because  the  ocean 
will  refuse  to  swallow  him. 


*  *  * 


I  congratulate  you  on  the  Gilder  acceptance  of  your  son 
net,  and  on  publication  of  the  "Tasso  to  Leonora."  I  don't 
think  it  your  best  work  by  much  —  don't  think  any  of  your 


i46         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

blank  verse  as  good  as  most  of  your  rhyme  —  but  it's  not  a 
thing  to  need  apology. 

Certainly,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  see  Hopper.  Give  me  his 
address,  and  when  I  go  to  New  York  —  this  month  or  the 
next  —  I'll  look  him  up.  I  think  well  of  Hopper  and  trust 
that  he  will  not  turn  out  to  be  an  'ist  of  some  kind,  as  most 
writers  and  artists  do.  That  is  because  they  are  good  feelers 
and  poor  thinkers.  It  is  the  emotional  element  in  them,  not 
the  logical,  that  makes  them  writers  and  artists. They  have, 

as  a  rule,  sensibility  and  no  sense.  Except  the  big  fellows. 

*  *  * 

Neale  has  in  hand  already  three  volumes  of  the  "Col 
lected  Works,"  and  will  have  two  more  in  about  a  month; 
and  all  (I  hope)  this  year.  I'm  revising  all  the  stuff  and  cut 
ting  it  about  a  good  deal,  taking  from  one  book  stuff  for 
another,  and  so  forth.  If  Neale  gets  enough  subscriptions 
he  will  put  out  all  the  ten  volumes  next  year;  if  not  I  shall 

probably  not  be  "here"  to  see  the  final  one  issued. 

*  *  * 

Glad  you  think  better  of  my  part  in  the  Hunter-Hillquit 
"symposium."  /  think  I  did  very  well  considering,  first, 
that  I  didn't  care  a  damn  about  the  matter;  second,  that  I 
knew  nothing  of  the  men  I  was  to  meet,  nor  what  we  were 
to  talk  about,  whereas  they  came  cocked  and  primed  for 
the  fray;  and,  third,  that  the  whole  scheme  was  to  make  a 
Socialist  holiday  at  my  expense.  Of  all  'ists  the  Socialist  is 
perhaps  the  damnedest  fool  for  (in  this  country)  he  is 
merely  the  cat  that  pulls  chestnuts  from  the  fire  for  the 
Anarchist.  His  part  of  the  business  is  to  talk  away  the 
country's  attention  while  the  Anarchist  places  the  bomb. 
In  some  countries  Socialism  is  clean,  but  not  in  this.  And 
everywhere  the  Socialist  is  a  dreamer  and  futilitarian. 


*The  Letters  of  Ambrose  fierce         147 

But  I  guess  I'll  call  a  halt  on  this  letter,  the  product  of  an 
idle  hour  in  garrulous  old  age. 


*  *  * 


Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


MY  DEAR  MR.  CAHILL, 
Your  note  inquiring  about  "Ashes  of  the  Beacon"  inter-  The  Army  and 

AT-  •  i  i        »  T  i  i  i      Navy  Club, 

ests  me.  You  mention  it  as  a    pamphlet,    i  have  no  knowl-  Washington,  D.  c, 

edge  of  its  having  appeared  otherwise  than  as  an  article  Ausust7> 

in  the  Sunday  edition  of  the  "N.Y.American"  —I  do  not 

recall  the  date.  If  it  has  been  published  as  a  pamphlet,  or 

in  any  other  form,  separately  —  that  is  by  itself—  I  should 

like  "awfully"  to  know  by  whom,  if  you  know. 

I  should  be  pleased  to  send  it  to  you—  in  the  "American"— 
if  I  had  a  copy  of  the  issue  containing  it,  but  I  have  not.  It 
will  be  included  in  Vol.  I  of  my  "  Collected  Works,"  to  be 
published  by  the  Neale  Publishing  Company,  N.Y.  That 
volume  will  be  published  probably  early  next  year. 

But  the  work  is  to  be  in  ten  or  twelve  costly  volumes,  and    i 
sold  by  subscription  only.  That  buries  it  fathoms  deep  so 
far  as  the  public  is  concerned. 

Regretting  my  inability  to  assist  you,  I  am  sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
&&  &**  £•» 
DEAR  GEORGE, 

I  am  amused  by  your  attitude  toward  the  spaced  sonnet,  Washington,  D.  c., 
and  by  the  docility  of  Gilder.  If  I  had  been  your  editor  I  fu0s8ustI4> 
guess  you'd  have  got  back  your  sonnets.  I  never  liked  the 
space.  If  the  work  naturally  divides  itself  into  two  parts,  as 
it  should,  the  space  is  needless;  if  not,  it  is  worse  than  that. 
The  space  was  the  invention  of  printers  of  a  comparatively 


148         The,  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

recent  period,  neither  Petrarch  nor  Dante  (as  Gilder  points 
out)  knew  of  it.  Every  magazine  has  its  own  system  of 
printing,  and  Gilder's  good-natured  compliance  with  your 
wish,  or  rather  demand,  shows  him  to  be  a  better  fellow, 
though  not  a  better  poet,  than  I  have  thought  him  to  be. 
As  a  victory  of  author  over  editor,  the  incident  pleases. 

I've  not  yet  been  in  New  York,  but  expect  to  go  soon.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  meet  Hopper  if  he  is  there. 

Thank  you  for  the  article  from  "Town  Talk."  It  suggests 

x^this  question:  How  many  times,  and  covering  a  period  of 

ihow  many  years,  must  one's  unexplainable  obscurity  be 

^pointed  out  to  constitute  fame?  Not  knowing,  I  am  almost 

Disposed  to  consider  myself  the  most  famous  of  authors.  I 

have  pretty  nearly  ceased  to  be  "discovered,"  but  my 

jnotoriety  as  an  obscurian  may  be  said  to  be  worldwide  and 

apparently  everlasting. 

The  trouble,  I  fancy,  is  with  our  vocabulary  —  the  lack  of 
a  word  meaning  something  intermediate  between  "popu 
lar"  and  "obscure"  —  and  the  ignorance  of  writers  as  to 
the  reading  of  readers.  I  seldom  meet  a  person  of  education 
who  is  not  acquainted  with  some  of  my  work;  my  clipping 
bureau's  bills  were  so  heavy  that  I  had  to  discontinue  my 
patronage,  and  Blake  tells  me  that  he  sells  my  books  at  one 
hundred  dollars  a  set.  Rather  amusing  all  this  to  one  so 
widely  unknown. 

I  sometimes  wonder  what  you  think  of  SchefFs  new  book. 
Does  it  perform  the  promise  of  the  others  ?  In  the  dedica 
tory  poem  it  seems  to  me  that  it  does,  and  in  some  others. 
As  a  good  Socialist  you  are  bound  to  like  /^/poem  because 
of  its  political-economic-views.  I  like  it  despite  them. 

"The  dome  of  the  Capitol  roars 
With  the  shouts  of  the  Caesars  of  crime" 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         149 

is  great  poetry,  but  it  is  not  true.  I  am  rather  familiar  with 
what  goes  on  in  the  Capitol  —  not  through  the  muck- 
rakers,  who  pass  a  few  days  here  "investigating,"  and  then 
look  into  their  pockets  and  write,  but  through  years  of  per 
sonal  observation  and  personal  acquaintance  with  the  men 
observed.  There  are  no  Caesars  of  crime,  but  about  a  dozen 
rascals,  all  told,  mostly  very  small  fellows;  I  can  name  them 
all.  They  are  without  power  or  influence  enough  to  count 
in  the  scheme  of  legislation.  The  really  dangerous  and  mis 
chievous  chaps  are  the  demagogues,  friends  of  the  pee-pul. 
And  they  do  all  the  "shouting."  Compared  with  the  Con 
gress  of  our  forefathers,  the  Congress  of  to-day  is  as  a  flock 
of  angels  to  an  executive  body  of  the  Western  Federation 
of  Miners. 

When  I  showed  the  "dome"  to  *  *  *  (who  had  been 
reading  his  own  magazine)  the  tears  came  into  his  voice, 
and  I  guess  his  eyes,  as  he  lamented  the  decay  of  civic 
virtue,  "the  treason  of  the  Senate,"  and  the  rest  of  it.  He 
was  so  affected  that  I  hastened  to  brace  him  up  with  whis 
key.  He,  too,  was '"squirming"  about  "other  persons' 
troubles,"  and  with  about  as  good  reason  as  you. 

I  think  "the  present  system"  is  not  "frightful."  It  is  all 
right  —  a  natural  outgrowth  of  human  needs,  limitations 
and  capacities,  instinct  with  possibilities  of  growth  in  good 
ness,  elastic,  and  progressively  better.  Why  don't  you 
study  humanity  as  you  do  the  suns  —  not  from  the  view 
point  of  time,  but  from  that  of  eternity.  The  middle  ages 
were  yesterday,  Rome  and  Greece  the  day  before.  The  in 
dividual  man  is  nothing,  as  a  single  star  is  nothing.  If  this 
earth  were  to  take  fire  you  would  smile  to  think  how  little 
it  mattered  in  the  scheme  of  the  universe;  all  the  wailing  of 
the  egoist  mob  would  not  affect  you.  Then  why  do  you 


150         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

squirm  at  the  minute  catastrophe  of  a  few  thousands  or 
millions  of  pismires  crushed  under  the  wheels  of  evolution. 
Must  the  new  heavens  and  the  new  earth  of  prophecy  and 
science  come  in  your  little  instant  of  life  in  order  that  you 
may  not  go  howling  and  damning  with  Jack  London  up 
and  down  the  earth  that  we  happen  to  have?  Nay,  nay, 
read  history  to  get  the  long,  large  view  —  to  learn  to  think 
in  centuries  and  cycles.  Keep  your  eyes  off  your  neighbors 
and  fix  them  on  the  nations.  What  poetry  we  shall  have 
when  you  get,  and  give  us,  The  Testimony  of  the  Races! 


*  *  * 


I  peg  away  at  compilation  and  revision.  I'm  cutting- 
about  my  stuff  a  good  deal  —  changing  things  from  one 
book  to  another,  adding,  subtracting  and  dividing.  Five 
volumes  are  ready,  and  Neale  is  engaged  in  a  "prospectus" 
which  he  says  will  make  me  blush.  I'll  send  it  to  you  when 
he  has  it  ready. 

Gertrude  Atherton  is  sending  me  picture-postals  of 
Berchtesgaden  and  other  scenes  of  "The  Monk  and  the 
Hangman's  Daughter."  She  found  all  the  places  "exactly 
as  described"  —  the  lakes,  mountains,  St.  Bartolomae,  the 
cliff-meadow  where  the  edelweiss  grows,  and  so  forth.  The 
photographs  are  naturally  very  interesting  to  me. 

Good  night. 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

s«>»  &+•  $«•• 

Army  and  Navy  Club,    MY  DEAR  MR.  CAHILL, 

aS  September  a',     Thank  you  for  your  good  wishes  for  the  "  Collected 
1908.  Works"—  an  advertisement  of  which—  with  many  blush 
es!  —  I  enclose.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         151 

P.  S.  —  The  "ad"  is  not  sent  in  the  hope  that  you  will  be 
so  foolish  as  to  subscribe  —  merely  to  "show"  you.  The 
"edition  de  luxe"  business  is  not  at  all  to  my  taste  —  I 
should  prefer  a  popular  edition  at  a  possible  price. 

*t»4tF«tto 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

Your  letter  has  just  been  forwarded  from  Washington.  New  York, 
I'm  here  for  a  few  days  only  —  "few  days  and  full  of  trou-  igos!™ 
ble,"  as  the  Scripture  hath  it.  The  "trouble"  is  mainly 
owling,  dining  and  booze.  I'll  not  attempt  an  answer  to 
your  letter  till  I  get  home. 

*  *  * 

I'm  going  to  read  Hopper's  book,  and  if  it  doesn't  show 
him  to  be  a  *  *  *  or  a  *  *  *  I'll  call  on  him.  If  it  does  I 
won't.  I'm  getting  pretty  particular  in  my  old  age;  the 
muck-rakers,  blood-boilers  and  little  brothers-of-the-bad 
are  not  congenial. 

By  the  way,  why  do  you  speak  of  my  "  caning  "  you.  I  did 
not  suppose  thatjyo^  had  joined  the  innumerable  caravan 
of  those  who  find  something  sarcastic  or  malicious  in  my 
good  natured  raillery  in  careless  controversy.  If  I  choose  to 
smile  in  ink  at  your  inconsistency  in  weeping  for  the  woes 
of  individual  "others"  —  meaning  other  humans  —  while 
you,  of  course,  don't  give  a  damn  for  the  thousands  of  lives 
that  you  crush  out  every  time  you  set  down  your  foot,  or 
eat  a  berry,  why  shouldn't  /  do  so?  One  can't  always  re 
member  to  stick  to  trifles,  even  in  writing  a  letter.  Put  on 
your  skin,  old  man,  I  may  want  to  poke  about  with  my 
finger  again.  *  *  * 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


1  52         *fbe  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

December  1  1,  #    *    * 

1908. 

Fm  still  working  at  my  book.  Seven  volumes  are  com 
pleted  and  I've  read  the  proofs  of  Vol.  I. 

Your  account  of  the  "movement"  to  free  the  oppressed 
and  downtrodden  river  from  the  tyranny  of  the  sand-bar 
tickled  me  in  my  lonesome  rib.  Surely  no  colony  of  reform 
ers  ever  engaged  in  a  more  characteristic  crusade  against 
the  Established  Order  and  Intolerable  Conditions.  I  can 
almost  hear  you  patting  yourselves  on  your  aching  backs 
as  you  contemplated  your  encouraging  success  in  beating 
Nature  and  promoting  the  Cause.  I  believe  that  if  I'd  been 
there  my  cold  heart  and  indurated  mind  would  have 
caught  the  contagion  of  the  Great  Reform.  Anyhow,  I 
should  have  appreciated  the  sunset  which  (characteristi 
cally)  intervened  in  the  interest  of  Things  as  They  Are.  I 
feel  sure  that  whenever  you  Socialers  shall  have  found  a 
way  to  make  the  earth  stop  "  turning  over  and  over  like  a 
man  in  bed"  (as  Joaquin  might  say)  you  will  accomplish 
all  the  reforms  that  you  have  at  heart.  All  that  you  need  is 
plenty  of  time—  a  few  kalpas,  more  or  less,  of  uninterrupted 
daylight.  Meantime  I  await  your  new  book  with  impatience 
and  expectation. 

I  have  photographs  of  my  brother's  shack  in  the  red 
woods  and  feel  strongly  drawn  in  that  direction  —  since,  as 
you  fully  infer,  Carmel  is  barred.  Probably,  though,  I  shall 
continue  in  the  complicated  life  of  cities  while  I  last. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

I've  been  reading  your  book  —  re-reading  most  of  it  — 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         153 

"every  little  while."  I  don't  know  that  it  is  better  than 
your  first,  but  to  say  that  it  is  as  good  is  praise  enough. 
You  know  what  I  like  most  in  it,  but  there  are  some  things 
that  you  dorit  know  I  like.  For  an  example,  "Night  in 
Heaven."  It  Kipples  a  bit,  but  it  is  great.  But  I'm  not 
going  to  bore  you  with  a  catalogue  of  titles.  The  book  is  all 
good.  No,  not  (in  my  judgment)  all,  for  it  contains  lines 
and  words  that  I  found  objectionable  in  the  manuscript, 
and  time  has  not  reconciled  me  to  them.  Your  retention  of 
them,  shows,  however,  that  you  agree  with  me  in  thinking 
that  you  have  passed  your  'prentice  period  and  need  no 
further  criticism.  So  I  welcome  them. 

I  take  it  that  the  cover  design  is  Scheff's  —  perhaps  be 
cause  it  is  so  good,  for  the  little  cuss  is  clever  that  way. 


*  *  * 


I  rather  like  your  defence  of  Jack  London  —  not  that  I 
think  it  valid,  but  because  I  like  loyalty  to  a  friend  whom 
one  does  not  believe  to  be  bad.  (The  "thick-and-thin"  loy 
alty  never  commended  itself  to  me;  it  is  too  dog-like.)  I 
fail,  however,  to  catch  the  note  of  penitence  in  London's 
narratives  of  his  underlife,  and  my  charge  of  literary  steal 
ing  was  not  based  on  his  primeval  man  book,  "Before 
Adam." 

As  to  *  *  *,  as  he  is  not  more  than  a  long-range  or  short- 
acquaintance  friend  of  yours,  I'll  say  that  I  would  not 
believe  him  under  oath  on  his  deathbed.  *  *  *  The  truth 
is,  none  of  these  howlers  knows  the  difference  between  a 
million  and  a  thousand  nor  between  truth  and  falsehood.  I 
could  give  you  instances  of  their  lying  about  matters  here 
at  the  capital  that  would  make  even  your  hair  stand  on 
end.  It  is  not  only  that  they  are  all  liars  —  they  are  mere 


1 54         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

children;  they  don't  know  anything  and  don't  care  to,  nor, 
for  prosperity  in  their  specialties,  need  to.  Veracity  would 
be  a  disqualification;  if  they  confined  themselves  to  facts 
they  would  not  get  a  hearing.  *  *  *  is  the  nastiest  futili- 
tarian  of  the  gang. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  these  gentlemen  that  I  find  so 
very  objectionable,  but  the  foul  means  that  they  employ  to 
accomplish  it.  I  would  be  a  good  deal  of  a  Socialist  myself 
if  they  had  not  made  the  word  (and  the  thing)  stink. 

Don't  imagine  that  I'll  not  "enter  Carmel"  if  I  come  out 
there.  I'll  visit  you  till  you're  sick  of  me.  But  I'd  not  live 
there  and  be  "identified"  with  it,  as  the  newspapers  would 
say.  I'm  warned  by  Hawthorne  and  Brook  Farm. 

I'm  still  working  —  a  little  more  leisurely  —  on  my  books. 
But  I  begin  to  feel  the  call  of  New  York  on  the  tympani  of 
my  blood  globules.  I  must  go  there  occasionally,  or  I  should 
die  of  intellectual  torpor.  *  *  *  "  O  Lord  how  long  ? "  —  this 
letter.  O  well,  you  need  not  give  it  the  slightest  attention; 
there's  nothing,  I  think,  that  requires  a  reply,  nor  merits 
one.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
*»«**» 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

March  6,  *    *    * 

1909. 

Did  you  see  Markham's  review  of  the  "Wine"  in  "The 
N.  Y.  American"  ?  Pretty  fair,  but  —  if  a  metrical  composi 
tion  full  of  poetry  is  not  a  poem  what  is  it?  And  I  wonder 
what  he  calls  Kubla  Khan,  which  has  a  beginning  but 
neither  middle  nor  end.  And  how  about  The  Faerie  Queene 
for  absence  of  "unity"?  Guess  I'll  ask  him. 

Isn't  it  funny  what  happens  to  critics  who  would  mark 
out  meters  and  bounds  for  the  Muse  —  denying  the  name 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         155 

"poem,"  for  example,  to  a  work  because  it  is  not  like  some 
other  work,  or  like  one  that  is  in  the  minds  of  them  ? 

I  hope  you  are  prosperous  and  happy  and  that  I  shall 
sometimes  hear  from  you. 

Howes  writes  me  that  the  "Lone  Hand"  —  Sydney  — 
has  been  commending  you. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

I  return  the  poems  with  a  few  random  comments  and  sug-  Washington,  D.  c., 
gestions. 

I'm  a  little  alarmed  lest  you  take  too  seriously  my  prefer 
ence  of  your  rhyme  to  your  blank  —  especially  when  I 
recall  your  "Music"  and  "The  Spirit  of  Beauty."  Perhaps 
I  should  have  said  only  that  you  are  not  so  likely  to  write 
well  in  blank.  (I  think  always  of  "Tasso  to  Leonora," 
which  I  cannot  learn  to  like.)  Doubtless  I  have  too  great 
fondness  for  great  lines  —your  great  lines  —  and  they  occur 
less  frequently  in  your  blank  verse  than  in  your  rhyme  — 
most  frequently  in  your  quatrains,  those  of  sonnets  in 
cluded.  Don't  swear  off  blank  —  except  as  you  do  drink  — 
but  study  it  more.  It's  "an  hellish  thing." 

It  looks  as  if  I  might  go  to  California  sooner  than  I  had 
intended.  My  health  has  been  wretched  all  summer.  I  need 
a  sea  voyage  — one  via  Panama  would  be  just  the  thing. 
So  if  the  cool  weather  of  autumn  do  not  restore  me  I  shall 
not  await  spring  here.  But  I'm  already  somewhat  better. 
If  I  had  been  at  sea  I  should  have  escaped  the  Cook-Peary 
controversy.  We  talk  nothing  but  arctic  matters  here  —  I 
enclose  my  contribution  to  its  horrors. 

I'm  getting  many  a  good  lambasting  for  my  book  of  essays. 


156         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

Also  a  sop  of  honey  now  and  then.  It's  all  the  same  to  me; 
I  don't  worry  about  what  my  contemporaries  think  of  me. 
I  made  'em  think  of  you  —  that's  glory  enough  for  one. 
And  the  squirrels  in  the  public  parks  think  me  the  finest 
fellow  in  the  world.  They  know  what  I  have  in  every 
pocket.  Critics  don't  know  that  —  nor  nearly  so  much. 

Advice  to  a  young  author:  Cultivate  the  good  opinion  of 
squirrels.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
s^se»s«* 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

November  I.        -r-i  ...  r  ,  A  .          ITT  i  *     • 

i909.  European  criticism  of  your  bete  notr,  old  Leopold,  is  en 
titled  to  attention;  American  (of  him  or  any  other  king)  is 
not.  It  looks  as  if  the  wretch  may  be  guilty  of  indifference. 

In  condemning  as  "revolutionary"  the  two-rhyme  sestet, 
I  think  I  could  not  have  been  altogether  solemn,  for  (i) 
I'm  something  of  a  revolutionist  myself  regarding  the  son 
net,  having  frequently  expressed  the  view  that  its  accepted 
forms  —  even  the  number  of  lines  —  were  purely  arbitrary; 
(2)  I  find  I've  written  several  two-rhyme  sestets  myself, 
and  (3),  like  yours,  my  ear  has  difficulty  in  catching  the 
rhyme  effect  in  a-b-c,  a-b-c.  The  rhyme  is  delayed  till  the 
end  of  the  fourth  line  —  as  it  is  in  the  quatrain  (not  of  the 
sonnet)  with  unrhyming  first  and  third  lines  —  a  form  of 
which  I  think  all  my  multitude  of  verse  supplies  no  ex 
ample.  I  confess,  though,  that  I  did  not  know  that  Pe 
trarch  had  made  so  frequent  use  of  the  2-rhyme  sestet. 

I  learn  a  little  all  the  time;  some  of  my  old  notions  of 
poetry  seem  to  me  now  erroneous,  even  absurd.  So  I  may 
have  been  at  one  time  a  stickler  for  the  "regular"  three- 
rhymer.  Even  now  it  pleases  my  ear  well  enow  if  the  three 
are  not  so  arranged  as  to  elude  it.  I'm  sorry  if  I  misled  you. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         157 

You'd  better  'fess  up  to  your  young  friend,  as  I  do  to  you  — 
if  I  really  was  serious. 


*  *  * 


Of  course  I  should  be  glad  to  see  Dick,  but  don't  expect 
to.  They  never  come,  and  it  has  long  been  my  habit  to  ig 
nore  every  "declaration  of  intention." 

I'm  greatly  pleased  to  know  that  you  too  like  those  lines 
of  Markham  that  you  quote  from  the  "Wharf  of  Dreams." 
I've  repeatedly  told  him  that  that  sonnet  was  his  greatest 
work,  and  those  were  its  greatest  lines.  By  the  way,  my 
young  poet,  Loveman,  sends  me  a  letter  from  Markham, 
asking  for  a  poem  or  two  for  a  book,  "The  Younger  Choir," 
that  he  (M.)  is  editing.  Loveman  will  be  delighted  by  your 
good  opinion  of  "Pierrot"  —  which  still  another  magazine 
has  returned  to  me.  Guess  I'll  have  to  give  it  up. 

I'm  sending  you  a  booklet  on  loose  locutions.  It  is  vilely 
gotten  up  —  had  to  be  so  to  sell  for  twenty-five  cents,  the 
price  that  I  favored.  I  just  noted  down  these  things  as  I 
found  them  in  my  reading,  or  remembered  them,  until  I  had 
four  hundred.Then  I  took  about  fifty  from  other  books,  and 
boiled  down  the  needful  damnation.  Maybe  I  have  done  too 
much  boiling  down— making  the  stuff  "thick  and  slab." 
If  there  is  another  edition  I  shall  do  a  little  bettering. 

I  should  like  some  of  those  mussels,  and,  please  God,  shall 
help  you  cull  them  next  summer.  But  the  abalone  —  as  a 
Christian  comestible  he  is  a  stranger  to  me  and  the  tooth 
o'  me. 

I  think  you  have  had  some  correspondence  with  my 
friend  Howes  of  Galveston.  Well,  here  he  is  "in  his  habit 
as  he  lives. "  Of  the  two  figures  in  the  picture  Howes  is  the 
one  on  top.*  Good  night.  A.  B. 

*Howes  was  riding  on  a  burro. 


158         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

Washington,  D.  C,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

i9io!  Here  are  your  fine  verses  —  I  have  been  too  busy  to  write 
to  you  before.  In  truth,  I've  worked  harder  now  for  more 
than  a  year  than  I  ever  shall  again  —  and  the  work  will 
bring  me  nor  gain  nor  glory.  Well,  I  shall  take  a  rest  pretty 
soon,  partly  in  California.  I  thank  you  for  the  picture  card. 
I  have  succumbed  to  the  post-card  fashion  myself. 

As  to  some  points  in  your  letter. 

I've  no  recollection  of  advising  young  authors  to  "leave 
all  heart  and  sentiment  out  of  their  work. "  If  I  did  the  con 
text  would  probably  show  that  it  was  because  their  time 
might  better  be  given  to  perfect  themselves  in  form, 
against  the  day  when  their  hearts  would  be  less  wild  and 
their  sentiments  truer.  You  know  it  has  always  been  my 
belief  that  one  cannot  be  trusted  to  feel  until  one  has 
learned  to  think  —  and  few  youngsters  have  learned  to  do 
that.  Was  it  not  Dr.  Holmes  who  advised  a  young  writer 
to  cut  out  every  passage  that  he  thought  particularly  good? 
He'd  be  sure  to  think  the  beautiful  and  sentimental  pas 
sages  the  best,  would  he  not?  *  *  * 

If  you  mean  to  write  really  "vituperative"  sonnets  (why 
sonnets?)  let  me  tell  you  one  secret  of  success  —  name  your 
victim  and  his  offense.  To  do  otherwise  is  to  fire  blank 
cartridges  —  to  waste  your  words  in  air  —  to  club  a  vac 
uum.  At  least  your  satire  must  be  so  personally  applicable 
that  there  can  be  no  mistake  as  to  the  victim's  identity. 
Otherwise  he  is  no  victim  —just  a  spectator  like  all  others. 
And  that  brings  us  to  Watson.  His  caddishness  consisted, 
not  in  satirizing  a  woman,  which  is  legitimate,  but,  first,  in 
doing  so  without  sufficient  reason,  and,  second,  in  saying 
orally  (on  the  safe  side  of  the  Atlantic)  what  he  apparently 
did  not  dare  say  in  the  verses.  *  *  * 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         159 

I'm  enclosing  something  that  will  tickle  you  I  hope  — 
"The  Ballade  of  the  Goodly  Fere."  The  author's*  father, 
who  is  something  in  the  Mint  in  Philadelphia,  sent  me  sev 
eral  of  his  son's  poems  that  were  not  good;  but  at  last  came 
this  —  in  manuscript,  like  the  others.  Before  I  could  do 
anything  with  it  —  meanwhile  wearing  out  the  paper  and 
the  patience  of  my  friends  by  reading  it  at  them  —  the  old 
man  asked  it  back  rather  peremptorily.  I  reluctantly  sent 
it,  with  a  letter  of  high  praise.  The  author  had  "placed"  it 
in  London,  where  it  has  made  a  heap  of  talk. 

It  has  plenty  of  faults  besides  its  monotonous  rhyme 
scheme;  but  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it. 

God  willing,  we  shall  eat  Carmel  mussels  and  abalones  in 
May  or  June.  Sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

&&•  £«*  &€* 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

My  plan  is  to  leave  here  before  April  first,  pass  a  few  days  Washington,  D.  c. 
in  New  York  and  then  sail  for  Colon.  If  I  find  the  canal 
work  on  the  Isthmus  interesting  I  may  skip  a  steamer  from 
Panama  to  see  it.  I've  no  notion  how  long  it  will  take  to 
reach  San  Francisco,  and  know  nothing  of  the  steamers 
and  their  schedules  on  the  Pacific  side. 

I  shall  of  course  want  to  see  Grizzly  first  —  that  is  to  say, 
he  will  naturally  expect  me  to.  But  if  you  can  pull  him 
down  to  Carmel  about  the  time  of  my  arrival  (I  shall  write 
you  the  date  of  my  sailing  from  New  York)  I  would  gladly 
come  there.  Carlt,  whom  I  can  see  at  once  on  arriving,  can 
tell  me  where  he  (Grizzly)  is.  *  *  * 

I  don't  think  you  rightly  value  "The  Goodly  Fere."  Of 
course  no  ballad  written  to-day  can  be  entirely  good,  for  it 
must  be  an  imitation;  it  is  now  an  unnatural  form,  whereas 

*Ezra  Pound. 


160         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

it  was  once  a  natural  one.  We  are  no  longer  a  primitive 
people,  and  a  primitive  people's  forms  and  methods  are  not 
ours.  Nevertheless,  this  seems  to  me  an  admirable  ballad, 
as  it  is  given  a  modern  to  write  ballads.  And  I  think  you 
overlook  the  best  line: 

"The  hounds  of  the  crimson  sky  gave  tongue." 

The  poem  is  complete  as  I  sent  it,  and  I  think  it  stops 
right  where  and  as  it  should  — 

"  I  ha'  seen  him  eat  o'  the  honey  comb 
Sin'  they  nailed  him  to  the  tree." 

The  current  "Literary  Digest"  has  some  queer  things 
about  (and  by)  Pound,  and  "Current  Literature"  reprints 
the  "Fere"  with  all  the  wrinkles  ironed  out  of  it—  making 
a  "capon  priest"  of  it. 

Fo'  de  Lawd's  sake!  don't  apologise  for  not  subscribing 
for  my  "Works."  If  you  did  subscribe  I  should  suspect  that 
you  were  "no  friend  o'  mine"  —  it  would  remove  you  from 
that  gang  and  put  you  in  a  class  by  yourself.  Surely  you 
can  not  think  I  care  who  buys  or  does  not  buy  my  books. 
The  man  who  expects  anything  more  than  lip-service  from 
his  friends  is  a  very  young  man.  There  are,  for  example,  a 
half-dozen  Californians  (all  loud  admirers  of  Ambrose 
Bierce)  editing  magazines  and  newspapers  here  in  the 
East.  Every  man  Jack  of  them  has  turned  me  down.  They 
will  do  everything  for  me  but  enable  me  to  live.  Friends 
be  damned! — strangers  are  the  chaps  for  me. 

*  *  * 

Fve  given  away  my  beautiful  sailing  canoe  and  shall 
never  again  live  a  life  on  the  ocean  wave  —  unless  you  have 
boats  at  Carmel.  Sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         161 

DEAR  GEORGE, 
Here's  a  letter  from  Loveman,  with  a  kindly  reference  to  Washington,  D.  c, 

,        ,          !        T  i   .  Easter  Sunday. 

you  —  that  s  why  1  send  it. 

I'm  to  pull  out  of  here  next  Wednesday,  the  30 th,  but 
don't  know  just  when  I  shall  sail  from  New  York  —  appar 
ently  when  there  are  no  more  dinners  to  eat  in  that  town 
and  no  more  friends  to  visit.  May  God  in  His  infinite  mercy 
lessen  the  number  of  both.  I  should  get  into  your  neck  o' 
woods  early  in  May.  Till  then  God  be  with  you  instead. 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

Easter  Sunday. 

[Why  couldn't  He  stay  put?] 


DEAR  GEORGE, 

I'm  "all  packed  up,"  even  my  pens;  for  to-morrow  I  go  Washington, D. c., 
to  New  York  —  whence  I  shall  write  you  before  embarking. 

Neale  seems  pleased  by  your  "permission  to  print,"  as 
Congressmen  say  who  can't  make  a  speech  yet  want  one  in 
the  Record,  for  home  consumption. 

Sincerely, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
«»«*»** 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

You  will  probably  have  learned  of  my  arrival  —  this  is  my  Guemeviiie,  Cai., 
first  leisure  to  apprise  you. 

I  took  Carlt  and  Lora  and  came  directly  up  here  —  where 
we  all  hope  to  see  you  before  I  see  Carmel.  Lora  remains 
here  for  the  week,  perhaps  longer,  and  Carlt  is  to  come  up 
again  on  Saturday.  Of  course  you  do  not  need  an  invitation 
to  come  whenever  you  feel  like  it. 

I  had  a  pleasant  enough  voyage  and  have  pretty  nearly 


t 


1  62         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 


got  the  "slosh"  of  the  sea  out  of  my  ears  and  its  heave  out 
of  my  bones. 

A  bushel  of  letters  awaits  attention,  besides  a  pair  of 
lizards  that  I  have  undertaken  to  domesticate.  So  good 
morning.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Key  Route  Inn,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

You'll  observe  that  I  acted  on  your  suggestion,  and  am 
"here." 

Your  little  sisters  are  most  gracious  to  me,  despite  my 
candid  confession  that  I  extorted  your  note  of  introduction 
by  violence  and  intimidation. 

Baloo*  and  his  cubs  went  on  to  Guerneville  the  day  of 
their  return  from  Carmel.  But  I  saw  them. 

I'm  deep  in  work,  and  shall  be  for  a  few  weeks;  then  I 
shall  be  off  to  Carmel  for  a  lungful  of  sea  air  and  a  bellyful 
of  abalones  and  mussels. 

I  suppose  you'll  be  going  to  the  Midsummer  Jinks.  Fail 
not  to  stop  over  here  —  I  don't  feel  that  I  have  really  seen 
you  yet. 

With  best  regards  to  Carrie. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

9t»4*** 

The  Laguna  Vista,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

Sunday,  /uiy  24'     Supposing  you  to  have  gone  home,  I  write  to  send  the 

J910-  poem.  Of  course  it  is  a  good  poem.  But  I  begin  to  want  to 

hear  your  larger  voice  again.  I  want  to  see  you  standing 

tall  on  the  heights  —  above  the  flower-belt  and  the  bird- 

belt.  I  want  to  hear, 

*Albert  Bierce. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         163 

"like  Ocean  on  a  western  beach^ 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey," 

as  you  Odyssate. 

I  think  I  met  that  dog  *  *  *  to-day,  and  as  it  was  a  choice 
between  kicking  him  and  avoiding  him  I  chose  the  more 
prudent  course. 

I've  not  seen  your  little  sisters  —  they  seem  to  have  tired 
of  me.  Why  not?  —  I  have  tired  of  myself. 

Fail  not  to  let  me  know  when  to  expect  you  for  the  Guerne- 
ville  trip.  *  *  * 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


I  go  back  to  the  Inn  on  Saturday. 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

It  is  long  since  I  read  the  Book  of  Job,  but  if  I  thought  it  The  Laguna  Vista, 
better  than  your  addition  to  it  I  should  not  sleep  until  I     "   er2°J 
had  read  it  again  —  and  again.  Such  a  superb  Who's  Who  in 
the  Universe !  Not  a  Homeric  hero  in  the  imminence  of  a  per 
sonal  encounter  ever  did  so  fine  bragging.  I  hope  you  will 
let  it  into  your  next  book,  if  only  to  show  that  the  "in 
spired"  scribes  of  the  Old  Testament  are  not  immatchable 
by  modern  genius.  You  know  the  Jews  regard  them,  not 
as  prophets,  in  our  sense,  but  merely  as  poets  —  and  the 
Jews  ought  to  know  something  of  their  own  literature. 

I  fear  I  shall  not  be  able  to  go  to  Carmel  while  you're  a 
widow  —  I've  tangled  myself  up  with  engagements  again. 
Moreover,  I'm  just  back  from  the  St.  Helena  cemetery, 
and  for  a  few  days  shall  be  too  blue  for  companionship. 

"Shifted"  is  better,  I  think  (in  poetry)  than  "joggled." 

You  say  you  "don't  like  working."  Then  write  a  short 


164         2^  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

story.  That's  work,  but  you'd  like  it  —  or  so  I   think. 
Poetry  is  the  highest  of  arts,  but  why  be  a  specialist? 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

S^  S^£«» 
Army  and  Navy  Club,    DEAR  LoRA, 

as  November  n'  It  is  nice  to  hear  from  you  and  learn  that  despite  my  rude 
I9I°-  and  intolerant  ways  you  manage  to  slip  in  a  little  affection 
for  me  —  you  and  the  rest  of  the  folk.  And  really  I  think  I 
left  a  little  piece  of  my  heart  out  there  —  mostly  in  Berke 
ley.  It  is  funny,  by  the  way,  that  in  falling  out  of  love  with 
most  of  my  old  sweethearts  and  semi-sweethearts  I  should 
fall  in  love  with  my  own  niece.  It  is  positively  scandalous! 

I  return  Sloot's  letter.  It  gave  me  a  bit  of  a  shock  to  have 
him  say  that  he  would  probably  never  see  me  again.  Of 
course  that  is  true,  but  I  had  not  thought  of  it  just  that 
way  —  had  not  permitted  myself  to,  I  suppose.  And,  after 
all,  if  things  go  as  I'm  hoping  they  will,  Montesano  will 
take  me  in  again  some  day  before  he  seems  likely  to  leave 
it.  We  four  may  see  the  Grand  Canon  together  yet.  I'd  like 
to  lay  my  bones  thereabout. 

The  garments  that  you  persuaded  me  were  mine  are  not. 
They  are  probably  Sterling's,  and  he  has  probably  damned 
me  for  stealing  them.  I  don't  care;  he  has  no  right  to  dress 
like  the  "filthy  rich."  Hasn't  he  any  "class  conscious 
ness"?  However,  I  am  going  to  send  them  back  to  you  by 
express.  I'll  mail  you  the  paid  receipt;  so  don't  pay  the 
charge  that  the  company  is  sure  to  make.  They  charged 
me  again  for  the  two  packages  that  you  paid  for,  and  got 
away  with  the  money  from  the  Secretary  of  my  club, 
where  they  were  delivered.  I  had  to  get  it  back  from  the 
delivery  man  at  the  cannon's  mouth —  34  calibre. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         165 

With  love  to  Carlt  and  Sloots, 

Affectionately  yours, 

AMBROSE. 

DEAR  LORA, 

*  *  * 

You  asked  me  about  the  relative  interest  of  Yosemite  and 
the  Grand  Canon.  It  is  not  easy  to  compare  them,  they  are  Washington,  D.  c, 
so  different.  In  Yosemite  only  the  magnitudes  are  un-  November  i4, 
familiar;  in  the  Canon  nothing  is  familiar  —  at  least,  noth 
ing  would  be  familiar  to  you,  though  I  have  seen  something 
like  it  on  the  upper  Yellowstone.  The  "color  scheme"  is 
astounding  —  almost  incredible,  as  is  the  "  architecture. " 
As  to  magnitudes,  Yosemite  is  nowhere.  From  points  on 
the  rim  of  the  Canon  you  can  see  fifty,  maybe  a  hundred, 
miles  of  it.  And  it  is  never  twice  alike.  Nobody  can  des 
cribe  it.  Of  course  you  must  see  it  sometime.  I  wish  our 
Yosemite  party  could  meet  there,  but  probably  we  never 
will;  it  is  a  long  way  from  here,  and  not  quite  next  door  to 
Berkeley  and  Carmel. 

I've  just  got  settled  in  my  same  old  tenement  house,  the 
Olympia,  but  the  club  is  my  best  address. 

*  *  * 

Affectionately, 

AMBROSE. 


DEAR  LORA, 

Thank  you  very  much  for  the  work  that  you  are  doing  Washington,  D.  c., 
for  me  in  photography  and  china.  I  know  it  is  great  work.  I9°oCm  er29' 
But  take  your  time  about  it. 

I  hope  you  all  had  a  good  Thanksgiving  at  Upshack. 
(That  is  my  name  for  Sloots'  place.  It  will  be  understood 


1 66         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

by  anyone  that  has  walked  to  it  from  Montesano,  carrying 
a  basket  of  grub  on  a  hot  day.) 

I  trust  Sterling  got  his  waistcoat  and  trousers  in  time  to 
appear  at  his  uncle's  dinner  in  other  outer  garments  than  a 
steelpen  coat.  *  *  *  I  am  glad  you  like  (or  like  to  have) 
the  books.  You  would  have  had  all  my  books  when  pub 
lished  if  I  had  supposed  that  you  cared  for  them,  or  even 
knew  about  them.  I  am  now  encouraged  to  hope  that 
some  day  you  and  Carlt  and  Sloots  may  be  given  the  light 
to  see  the  truth  at  the  heart  of  my  "views"  (which  I  have 
expounded  for  half  a  century)  and  will  cease  to  ally  your 
selves  with  what  is  most  hateful  to  me,  socially  and  politi 
cally.  I  shall  then  feel  (in  my  grave)  that  perhaps,  after  all, 
I  knew  how  to  write.  Meantime,  run  after  your  false  fool 
gods  until  you  are  tired;  I  shall  not  believe  that  your  hearts 
are  really  in  the  chase,  for  they  are  pretty  good  hearts,  and 
those  of  your  gods  are  nests  of  nastiness  and  heavens  of 
hate. 

Now  I  feel  better,  and  shall  drink  a  toddy  to  the  tardy 
time  when  those  whom  I  love  shall  not  think  me  a  per 
verted  intelligence;  when  they  shall  not  affirm  my  intellect 
and  despise  its  work  —  confess  my  superior  understanding 
and  condemn  all  its  fundamental  conclusions.  Then  we  will 
be  a  happy  family  —  you  and  Carlt  in  the  flesh  and  Sloots 

and  I  in  our  bones. 

*  *  * 

My  health  is  excellent  in  this  other  and  better  world  than 
California. 
God  bless  you.  AMBROSE. 

**-«^'*t» 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  CARLT, 

December  22,        _T        •       *  •      i        i  u  i  •  i  ••  1  » 

1910.     You  had  indeed    something  worth  writing  about    —  not 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         167 

only  the  effect  of  the  impenitent  mushroom,  but  the  final 
and  disastrous  overthrow  of  that  ancient  superstition, 
Sloots'  infallibility  as  a  mushroomer.  As  I  had  expected  to 
be  at  that  dinner,  I  suppose  I  should  think  myself  to  have 
had  "  a  narrow  escape. "  Still,  I  wish  I  could  have  taken  my 
chance  with  the  rest  of  you. 

How  would  you  like  three  weeks  of  nipping  cold  weather, 
with  a  foot  of  snow?  That's  what  has  been  going  on  here. 
Say,  tell  Sloots  that  the  front  footprints  of  a  rabbit-track 

are  made  by  the  animal's  hind  feet,  straddling  his  forelegs. 
Could  he  have  learned  that  important  fact  in  California, 
except  by  hearsay?  Observe  (therefore)  the  superiority  of 
this  climate.  *  *  *  AMBROSE. 

£•)»*•»  Jt» 

DEAR  LORA, 
I  have  just  received  a  very  affectionate  letter  from  *  *  *  Washington,  D.  c., 

...  J  anuary  26 

and  now  know  that  I  did  her  an  injustice  in  what  I  care-  1911. 
lessly  wrote  to  you  about  her  incivility  to  me  after  I  had 
left  her.  It  is  plain  that  she  did  not  mean  to  be  uncivil  in 
what  she  wrote  me  on  a  postal  card  which  I  did  not  look  at 
until  I  was  in  the  train;  she  just  "didn't  know  any  better." 
So  I  have  restored  her  to  favor,  and  hope  that  you  will  con 
sider  my  unkind  remarks  about  her  as  unwritten.  Guess 
I'm  addicted  to  going  off  at  half-cock  anyhow. 

Affectionately, 

AMBROSE. 

£•»£•»£«» 

DEAR  LORA, 

I  have  the  Yosemite  book,  and  Miss  Christiansen  has  the  Washington,  D.  c. 
Mandarin  coat.  I  thank  you  very  much.  The  pictures  are 
beautiful,  but  of  them  all  I  prefer  that  of  Nanny  bending 


1 68         7$£  Letters  of  Ambrose  fierce 

over  the  stove.  True,  the  face  is  not  visible,  but  it  looks  like 
you  all  over. 

I'm  filling  out  the  book  with  views  of  the  Grand  Canon, 
so  as  to  have  my  scenic  treasures  all  together.  Also  I'm  try 
ing  to  get  for  you  a  certain  book  of  Canon  pictures,  which  I 
neglected  to  obtain  when  there.  You  will  like  it  —  if  I  get  it. 

Sometime  when  you  have  nothing  better  to  do  —  don't  be 
in  a  hurry  about  it  —  will  you  go  out  to  Mountain  View 
cemetery  with  your  camera  and  take  a  picture  of  the  grave 
of  Elizabeth  (Lily)  Walsh,  the  little  deaf  mute  that  I  told 
you  of?  I  think  the  man  in  the  office  will  locate  it  for  you. 
It  is  in  the  Catholic  part  of  the  cemetery  —  St.  Mary's. 
The  name  Lily  Walsh  is  on  the  beveled  top  of  the  head 
stone  which  is  shaped  like  this: 


You  remember  I  was  going  to  take  you  there,  but  never 
found  the  time. 

Miss  Christiansen  says  she  is  writing,  or  has  written  you. 
I  think  the  coat  very  pretty.  Affectionately, 

AMBROSE. 


Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

Uariy9ii!  As  to  the  "  form  of  address.  "  A  man  passing  another  was 
halted  by  the  words:  "You  dirty  dog!"  Turning  to  the 
speaker,  he  bowed  coldly  and  said:  "Smith  is  my  name, 
sir."  My  name  is  Bierce,  and  I  find,  on  reflection,  that  I  like 
best  those  who  call  me  just  that.  If  my  christen  name  were 
George  I'd  want  to  be  called  tbat\  but  "Ambrose"  is  fit 
only  for  mouths  of  women  —  in  which  it  sounds  fairly  well. 
How  are  you  my  master?  I  never  read  one  of  your  poems 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         169 

without  learning  something,  though  not,  alas,  how  to  make 
one. 

Don't  worry  about  "Lilith";  it  will  work  out  all  right.  As 
to  the  characters  not  seeming  alive,  I've  always  fancied  the 
men  and  women  of  antiquity  —  particularly  the  kings,  and 
great  ones  generally  —  should  not  be  too  flesh-and-bloody, 
like  the  "persons  whom  one  meets."  A  little  coldness  and 
strangeness  is  very  becoming  to  them.  I  like  them  to  stalk, 
like  the  ghosts  that  they  are  —  our  modern  passioning 
seems  a  bit  anachronous  in  them.  Maybe  I'm  wrong,  but 
I'm  sure  you  will  understand  and  have  some  sympathy 
with  the  error. 

Hudson  Maxim  takes  medicine  without  biting  the  spoon. 
He  had  a  dose  from  me  and  swallowed  it  smiling.  I  too  gave 
him  some  citations  of  great  poetry  that  is  outside  the  con 
fines  of  his  "definition"  —  poetry  in  which  are  no  tropes 
at  all.  He  seems  to  lack  the  feel  of  poetry.  He  even  spoils 
some  of  the  "great  lines"  by  not  including  enough  of  the 
context.  As  to  his  "improvements,"  fancy  his  preference 
for  "the  fiercest  spirit  of  the  warrior  host"  to  "the  fiercest 
spirit  that  fought  in  Heaven"  \  O  my! 

Yes,  Conrad  told  me  the  tale  of  his  rescue  by  you.  He 
gave  me  the  impression  of  hanging  in  the  sky  above  billows 
unthinkably  huge  and  rocks  inconceivably  hard. 

*  *  * 

Of  course  I  could  not  but  be  pleased  by  your  inclusion  of 
that  sonnet  on  me  in  your  book.  And,  by  the  way,  I'm 
including  in  my  tenth  volume  my  Cosmopolitan  article  on 
the  "  Wine  "  and  my  end  of  the  controversy  about  it.  All  the 
volumes  of  the  set  are  to  be  out  by  June,  saith  the  pub 
lisher.  He  is  certainly  half-killing  me  with  proofs  —  moun 
tains  of  proofs !  *  *  * 


1 70         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

Yes,  you'll  doubtless  have  a  recruit  in  Carlt  for  your 
Socialist  menagerie  —  if  he  is  not  already  a  veteran  exhibit. 
Your  "party"  is  recruited  from  among  sore-heads  only. 
There  are  some  twenty-five  thousand  of  them  (sore-heads) 
in  this  neck  o'  woods  —  all  disloyal  —  all  growling  at  the 
Government  which  feeds  and  clothes  them  twice  as  well  as 
they  could  feed  and  clothe  themselves  in  private  employ 
ment.  They  move  Heaven  and  Earth  to  get  in,  and  they 
never  resign— just  "take  it  out"  in  abusing  the  Govern 
ment.  If  I  had  my  way  nobody  should  remain  in  the  civil 
service  more  than  five  years  —  at  the  end  of  that  period  all 
are  disloyal.  Not  one  of  them  cares  a  rap  for  the  good  of  the 
service  or  the  country  —  as  we  soldiers  used  to  do  on  thir 
teen  dollars  a  month  (with  starvation,  disease  and  death 
thrown  in).  Their  grievance  is  that  the  Government  does 
not  undertake  to  maintain  them  in  the  style  to  which  they 
choose  to  accustom  themselves.  They  fix  their  standard  of 
living  just  a  little  higher  than  they  can  afford,  and  would 
do  so  no  matter  what  salary  they  got,  as  all  salary-persons 
invariably  do.  Then  they  damn  their  employer  for  not  en 
abling  them  to  live  up  to  it. 

If  they  can  do  better  "outside"  why  don't  they  go  out 
side  and  do  so;  if  they  can't  (which  means  that  they  are 
getting  more  than  they  are  worth)  what  are  they  complain 
ing  about? 

What  this  country  needs  —  what  every  country  needs 
occasionally  —  is  a  good  hard  bloody  war  to  revive  the  vice 
of  patriotism  on  which  its  existence  as  a  nation  depends. 
Meantime,  you  socialers,  anarchists  and  other  sentimen- 
taliters  and  futilitarians  will  find  the  civil-service  your  best 
recruiting  ground,  for  it  is  the  Land  of  Reasonless  Discon 
tent.  I  yearn  for  the  strong-handed  Dictator  who  will  swat 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         171 

you  all  on  the  mouths  o'  you  till  you  are  "heard  to  cease." 
Until  then  —  How?  (drinking.)  Yours  sincerely, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


DEAR  LORA, 

Every  evening  coffee  is  made  for  me  in  my  rooms,  but  I  Washington,  D.  c. 

i.  .  i  i        •      r  err   February  19, 

have  not  yet  ventured  to  take  it  from  your  cup  tor  rear  or  i9u. 
an  accident  to  the  cup.  Some  of  the  women  in  this  house 
are  stark,  staring  mad  about  that  cup  and  saucer,  and  the 
plate. 

I  am  very  sorry  Carlt  finds  his  position  in  the  civil  service 
so  intolerable.  If  he  can  do  better  outside  he  should  resign. 
If  he  can't,  why,  that  means  that  the  Government  is  doing 
better  for  him  than  he  can  do  for  himself,  and  you  are  not 
justified  in  your  little  tirade  about  the  oppression  of  "the 
masses."  "The  masses"  have  been  unprosperous  from  time 
immemorial,  and  always  will  be.  A  very  simple  way  to  es 
cape  that  condition  (and  the  only  way)  is  to  elevate  oneself 
out  of  that  incapable  class. 

You  write  like  an  anarchist  and  say  that  if  you  were  a 
man  you'd  be  one.  I  should  be  sorry  to  believe  that,  for  I 
should  lose  a  very  charming  niece,  and  you  a  most  worthy 
uncle. 

You  say  that  Carlt  and  Grizzly  are  not  Socialists.  Does 
that  mean  that  they  are  anarchists?  I  draw  the  line  at 
anarchists,  and  would  put  them  all  to  death  if  I  lawfully 
could. 

But  I  fancy  your  intemperate  words  are  just  the  babbling 
of  a  thoughtless  girl.  In  any  case  you  ought  to  know  from 
my  work  in  literature  that  I  am  not  the  person  to  whom  to 
address  them.  I  carry  my  convictions  into  my  life  and  con 
duct,  into  my  friendships,  affections  and  all  my  relations 


172         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

with  my  fellow  creatures.  So  I  think  it  would  be  more  con 
siderate  to  leave  out  of  your  letters  to  me  some  things  that 
you  may  have  in  mind.  Write  them  to  others. 

My  own  references  to  socialism,  and  the  like,  have  been 
jocular  —  I  did  not  think  you  perverted  "enough  to  hurt," 
though  I  consider  your  intellectual  environment  a  mighty 
bad  one.  As  to  such  matters  in  future  let  us  make  a  treaty 
of  silence.  Affectionately,  AMBROSE. 

MY  DEAR  RUTH, 

Navy  Club, 

Washington,  D.  c.}      It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  the  family  Robertson  is  "see- 

aT9il!  ing  things"  and  enjoying  them.  I  hate  travel,  but  find  it 

delightful  when  done  by  you,  instead  of  me.  Believe  me,  I 

have  had  great  pleasure  in  following  you  by  your  trail  of 

words,  as  in  the  sport  known  as  the  "paper  chase." 

And  now  about  the  little  story.  Your  refusal  to  let  your 
father  amend  it  is  no  doubt  dreadfully  insubordinate,  but  I 
brave  his  wrath  by  approval.  It  is  your  work  that  I  want  to 
see,  not  anybody's  else.  I've  a  profound  respect  for  your 
father's  talent:  as  a  liter-ateur,  he  is  the  best  physician  that 
I  know;  but  he  must  not  be  coaching  my  pupil,  or  he  and  I 
(as  Mark  Twain  said  of  Mrs.  Astor)  "will  have  a  falling 


out." 


The  story  is  not  a  story.  It  is  not  narrative,  and  nothing 
occurs.  It  is  a  record  of  mental  mutations  —  of  spiritual 
vicissitudes  —  states  of  mind.  That  is  the  most  difficult 
thing  that  you  could  have  attempted.  It  can  be  done  ac 
ceptably  by  genius  and  the  skill  that  comes  of  practice,  as 
can  anything.  You  are  not  quite  equal  to  it  —  yet.  You 
have  done  it  better  than  I  could  have  done  it  at  your  age, 
but  not  altogether  well;  as  doubtless  you  did  not  expect  to 
do  it.  It  would  be  better  to  confine  yourself  at  present  to 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         173 

simple  narrative.  Write  of  something  done,  not  of  some 
thing  thought  and  felt,  except  incidentally.  I'm  sure  it  is  in 
you  to  do  great  work,  but  in  this  writing  trade,  as  in  other 
matters,  excellence  is  to  be  attained  no  otherwise  than  by 
beginning  at  the  beginning  —  the  simple  at  first,  then  the 
complex  and  difficult.  You  can  not  go  up  a  mountain  by  a 
leap  at  the  peak. 

I'm  retaining  your  little  sketch  till  your  return,  for  you 
can  do  nothing  with  it  —  nor  can  I.  If  it  had  been  written  — 
preferably  typewritten  —  with  wide  lines  and  margins  I 
could  do  something  to  it.  Maybe  when  I  get  the  time  I 
shall;  at  present  I  am  swamped  with  "proofs"  and  two 
volumes  behind  the  printers.  If  I  knew  that  I  should  see 
you  and  talk  it  over  I  should  rewrite  it  and  (original  in 
hand)  point  out  the  reasons  for  each  alteration  —  you 
would  see  them  quickly  enough  when  shown.  Maybe  you 
will  all  come  this  way. 

You  are  very  deficient  in  spelling.  I  hope  that  is  not  incur 
able,  though  some  persons  —  clever  ones,  too  —  never  do 
learn  to  spell  correctly.  You  will  have  to  learn  it  from  your 
reading  —  noting  carefully  all  but  the  most  familiar  words. 

You  have  "pet"  words  —  nearly  all  of  us  have.  One  of 
yours  is  "  flickering. "  Addiction  to  certain  words  is  an  "  up 
setting  sin"  most  difficult  to  overcome.  Try  to  overcome  it 
by  cutting  them  out  where  they  seem  most  felicitous. 

By  the  way,  your  "  hero, "  as  you  describe  him,  would  not 
have  been  accessible  to  all  those  spiritual  impressions  —  it 
is  you  to  whom  they  come.  And  that  confirms  my  judg 
ment  of  your  imagination.  Imagination  is  nine  parts  of  the 
writing  trade.  With  enough  of  that  all  things  are  possible; 
but  it  is  the  other  things  that  require  the  hard  work,  the 
incessant  study,  the  tireless  seeking,  the  indomitable  will. 


1  74         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

It  is  no  "pic-nic,"  this  business  of  writing,  believe  me.  Suc 
cess  comes  by  favor  of  the  gods,  yes;  but  O  the  days  and 
nights  that  you  must  pass  before  their  altars,  prostrate  and 
imploring!  They  are  exacting—  the  gods;  years  and  years 
of  service  you  must  give  in  the  temple.  If  you  are  prepared 
to  do  this  go  on  to  your  reward.  If  not,  you  can  not  too 
quickly  throw  away  the  pen  and  —  well,  marry,  for  ex 

ample. 

"  Drink  deep  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring." 

My  vote  is  that  you  persevere. 

With  cordial  regards  to  all  good  Robertsons  —  I  think 
there  are  no  others  —  I  am  most  sincerely  your  friend, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


Washington,  D.  C,    DEAR  LORA, 

1911!  Thank  you  for  the  pictures  of  the  Sloots  fire-place  and 
"Joe  Cans.  "  I  can  fancy  myself  cooking  a  steak  in  the  one, 
and  the  other  eating  one  better  cooked. 

I'm  glad  I've  given  you  the  Grand  Canon  fever,  for  I 
hope  to  revisit  the  place  next  summer,  and  perhaps  our 
Yosemite  bunch  can  meet  me  there.  My  outing  this  season 
will  be  in  Broadway  in  little  old  New  York.  That  is  not  as 
good  as  Monte  Sano,  but  the  best  that  I  can  do. 

You  must  have  had  a  good  time  with  the  Sterlings,  and 
doubtless  you  all  suffered  from  overfeeding. 

Carlt's  action  in  denuding  the  shaggy  pelt  of  his  hands 
meets  with  my  highest  commendation,  but  you'd  better 
look  out.  It  may  mean  that  he  has  a  girl  —  a  Jewess  des 
cended  from  Jacob,  with  an  hereditary  antipathy  to  any 
thing  like  Esau.  Carlt  was  an  Esaurian. 

You'll  have  to  overlook  some  bad  errors  in  Vol.  V  of  the 
C.  W.  I  did  not  have  the  page  proofs.  Some  of  the  verses 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         175 

are  unintelligible.  That's  the  penalty  for  philandering  in 
California  instead  of  sticking  to  my  work. 

*  *  * 

Affectionately, 

AMBROSE. 
ft***.** 
DEAR  GEORGE, 

I've  been  having  noctes  ambrosianae  with  "The  House  of 
Orchids/'  though  truly  it  came  untimely,  for  I've  not  yet  i9n. 
done  reading  your  other  books.  Don't  crowd  the  dancers, 
please.  I  don't  know  (and  you  don't  care)  what  poem  in  it 
I  like  best,  but  I  get  as  much  delight  out  of  these  lines  as 
out  of  any: 

"Such  flowers  pale  as  are 
Worn  by  the  goddess  of  a  distant  star- 
Before  whose  holy  eyes 
Beauty  and  evening  meet." 

And  —  but  what's  the  use?  I  can't  quote  the  entire  book. 

I'm  glad  you  did  see  your  way  to  make  "Memory"  a 
female. 

To  Hades  with  Bonnet's  chatter  of  gems  and  jewels  — 
among  the  minor  poetic  properties  they  are  better  (to  my 
taste)  than  flowers.  By  the  way,  I  wonder  what  "lightness" 
Bonnet  found  in  the  "Apothecary"  verses.  They  seem  to 
me  very  serious. 

Rereading  and  rerereading  of  the  Job  confirm  my  first 
opinion  of  it.  I  find  only  one  "bad  break"  in  it  —  and  that 
not  inconsistent  with  God's  poetry  in  the  real  Job:  "ropes 
of  adamant. "  A  rope  of  stone  is  imperfectly  conceivable  — 
is,  in  truth,  mixed  metaphor. 

I  think  it  was  a  mistake  for  you  to  expound  to  Ned  Ham 
ilton,  or  anybody,  how  you  wrote  the  "Forty-third  Chap- 


176         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

ter,"  or  anything.  When  an  author  explains  his  methods  of 
composition  he  cannot  expect  to  be  taken  seriously.  Nine 
writers  in  ten  wish  to  have  it  thought  that  they  "dash  off" 
things.  Nobody  believes  it,  and  the  judicious  would  be 
sorry  to  believe  it.  Maybe  you  do,  but  I  guess  you  work 
hard  and  honestly  enough  over  the  sketch  "dashed  off." 
If  you  don't  —  do.  *  *  * 

With  love  to  Carrie,  I  will  leave  you  to  your  sea-gardens 
^    and  abalones.  Sincerely  yours,  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

I'm  off  to  Broadway  next  week  for  a  season  of  old-gentle 
manly  revelry. 

*•»**«» 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

MIa9yI";  In  packing  (I'm  going  to  New  York)  I  find  this  "Tidal" 
typescript,  and  fear  that  I  was  to  have  returned  it.  Pray 
God  it  was  not  my  neglect  to  do  so  that  kept  it  out  of  the 
book.  But  if  not,  what  did  keep  it  out?  Maybe  the  fact  that 
it  requires  in  the  reader  an  uncommon  acquaintance  with 
the  Scriptures. 

If  Robertson  publishes  any  more  books  for  you  don't  let 
him  use  "silver"  leaf  on  the  cover.  It  is  not  silver,  cannot 
be  neatly  put  on,  and  will  come  off.  The  "Wine"  book  is 
incomparably  better  and  more  tasteful  than  either  of  the 
others.  By  the  way,  I  stick  to  my  liking  for  Scheff's  little 
vignette  on  the  "Wine." 

In  "Duandon"  you  —you,  Poet  of  the  Heavens!  —  come 
perilously  near  to  qualifying  yourself  for  "mention"  in  a 
certain  essay  of  mine  on  the  blunders  of  writers  and  artists 
in  matters  lunar.  You  must  have  observed  that  imme 
diately  after  the  full  o'  the  moon  the  light  of  that  orb  takes 
on  a  redness,  and  when  it  rises  after  dark  is  hardly  a 
"towering  glory,"  nor  a  "frozen  splendor."  Its  "web"  is 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         177 

not  "silver."  In  truth,  the  gibbous  moon,  rising,  has  some 
thing  of  menace  in  its  suggestion.  Even  twenty-four  (or 
rather  twenty-five)  hours  "after  the  full"  this  change  in 
the  quality  and  quantity  of  its  light  is  very  marked.  I  don't 
know  what  causes  the  sudden  alteration,  but  it  has  always 
impressed  me. 

I  feel  a  little  like  signing  this  criticism  "Gradgrind,"  but 
anyhow  it  may  amuse  you. 

Do  you  mind  squandering  ten  cents  and  a  postage  stamp 
on  me?  I  want  a  copy  of  'Town  Talk  —  the  one  in  which  you 
are  a  "Varied  Type." 

I  don't  know  much  of  some  of  your  poets  mentioned  in 
that  article,  but  could  wish  that  you  had  said  a  word  about 
Edith  Thomas.  Thank  you  for  your  too  generous  mention 
of  me  —  who  brought  you  so  much  vilification! 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


MY  DEAR  RUTH, 

You  are  a  faithful  correspondent;  I  have  your  postals  Washington,  D.  c. 
from  Athens  and  Syracuse,  and  now  the  letter  from  Rome.  190.  9: 
The  Benares  sketch  was  duly  received,  and  I  wrote  you 
about  it  to  the  address  that  you  gave  —  Cairo,  I  think.  As 
you  will  doubtless  receive  my  letter  in  due  time  I  will  not 
now  repeat  it  —  further  than  to  say  that  I  liked  it.  If  it  had 
been  accompanied  by  a  few  photographs  (indispensable 
now  to  such  articles)  I  should  have  tried  to  get  it  into  some 
magazine.  True,  Benares,  like  all  other  Asiatic  and  Euro 
pean  cities,  is  pretty  familiar  to  even  the  "general  reader," 
but  the  sketch  had  something  of  the  writer's  personality  in 
it  —  the  main  factor  in  all  good  writing,  as  in  all  forms  of 
art. 


Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 


May  I  tell  you  what  you  already  know  —  that  you  are 
deficient  in  spelling  and  punctuation?  It  is  worth  while  to 
know  these  things  —  and  all  things  that  you  can  acquire. 
Some  persons  can  not  acquire  orthography,  and  I  don't 
wonder,  but  every  page  of  every  good  book  is  a  lesson  in 
punctuation.  One's  punctuation  is  a  necessary  part  of  one's 
style;  you  cannot  attain  to  precision  if  you  leave  that  mat 
ter  to  editors  and  printers. 

You  ask  if  "stories"  must  have  action.  The  name  "story" 
is  preferably  used  of  narrative,  not  reflection  nor  mental 
analysis.  The  "psychological  novel"  is  in  great  vogue  just 
now,  for  example  —  the  adventures  of  the  mind,  it  might  be 
called  —  but  it  requires  a  profounder  knowledge  of  life  and 
character  than  is  possible  to  a  young  girl  of  whatever  tal 
ent;  and  the  psychological  "short  story"  is  even  more  dif 
ficult.  Keep  to  narrative  and  simple  description  for  a  few 
years,  until  your  wings  have  grown.  These  descriptions  of 
foreign  places  that  you  write  me  are  good  practice.  You  are 
not  likely  to  tell  me  much  that  I  do  not  know,  nor  is  that 
necessary;  but  your  way  of  telling  what  I  do  know  is  some 
times  very  interesting  as  a  study  of  you.  So  write  me  all  you 
will,  and  if  you  would  like  the  letters  as  a  record  of  your 
travels  you  shall  have  them  back;  I  am  preserving  them. 

I  judge  from  your  letter  that  your  father  went  straight 
through  without  bothering  about  me.  Maybe  I  should  not 
have  seen  him  anyhow,  for  I  was  away  from  Washington 
for  nearly  a  month. 

Please  give  my  love  to  your  mother  and  sister,  whom,  of 
course,  you  are  to  bring  here.  I  shall  not  forgive  you  if  you 
do  not. 

Yes,  I  wish  that  you  lived  nearer  to  me,  so  that  we  could 
go  over  your  work  together.  I  could  help  you  more  in  a  few 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         i  79 

> 


weeks  that  way  than  in  years  this  way.  God  never  does  any 
thing  just  right.  Sincerely  yours,         AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

4t»  *•»*•» 
DEAR  GEORGE, 

Thank  you  for  that  Times  "review."  It  is  a  trifle  less  Washington, D. c. 
malicious  than  usual  —  regarding  me,  that  is  all.  My  pub-  ,'j,^ 
lisher,  Neale,  who  was  here  last  evening,  is  about  "  taking 
action"  against  that  concern  for  infringement  of  his  copy 
right  in  my  little  book,  "Write  It  Right."  The  wretches 
have  been  serving  it  up  to  their  readers  for  several  weeks  as 
the  work  of  a  woman  named  Learned.  Repeatedly  she  uses 
my  very  words  —  whole  passages  of  them.  They  refused 
even  to  confess  the  misdeeds  of  their  contributrix,  and  per 
sist  in  their  sin.  So  they  will  have  to  fight. 

*  *  *  I  have  never  been  hard  on  women  whose  hearts  go 
with  their  admiration,  and  whose  bodies  follow  their  hearts  — 
I  don't  mean  that  the  latter  was  the  case  in  this  instance. 
Nor  am  I  very  exacting  as  to  the  morality  of  my  men 
friends.  I  would  not  myself  take  another  man's  woman, 
any  more  than  I  would  take  his  purse.  Nor,  I  trust,  would 
I  seduce  the  daughter  or  sister  of  a  friend,  nor  any  maid 
whom  it  would  at  all  damage  —  and  as  to  that  there  is  no 

hard  and  fast  rule. 

*  *  * 

A  fine  fellow,  I,  to  be  casting  the  first  stone,  or  the  one- 
hundredth,  at  a  lovelorn  woman,  weak  or  strong!  By  the 
way,  I  should  not  believe  in  the  love  of  a  strong  one,  wife, 
widow  or  maid. 

It  looks  as  if  I  may  get  to  Sag  Harbor  for  a  week  or  so  in 
the  middle  of  the  month.  It  is  really  not  a  question  of  ex 
pense,  but  Neale  has  blocked  out  a  lot  of  work  for  me.  He 
wants  two  more  volumes  —  even  five  more  if  I'll  make  'em. 


1 80         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

Guess  I'll  give  him  two.  In  a  week  or  so  I  shall  be  able  to 
say  whether  I  can  go  Sagharboring.  If  so,  I  think  we  should 
have  a  night  in  New  York  first,  no?  You  could  motor-boat 
up  and  back.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE.* 
•*»*»,*» 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

August^  In  one  of  your  letters  you  were  good  enough  to  promise 
191  '•  me  a  motorboat  trip  from  New  York  to  Sag  Harbor.  I  can 
think  of  few  things  more  delightful  than  navigating  in  a 
motorboat  the  sea  that  I  used  to  navigate  in  an  open  canoe; 
it  will  seem  like  Progress.  So  if  you  are  still  in  that  mind 
please  write  me  what  day  after  Saturday  next  you  can  meet 
me  in  New  York  and  I'll  be  there.  I  should  prefer  that  you 
come  the  day  before  the  voyage  and  dine  with  me  that 
evening. 

I  always  stay  at  the  Hotel  Navarre,  yth  avenue  and  38 th 
street.  If  unable  to  get  in  there  I'll  leave  my  address  there. 
Or,  tell  me  where  you  will  be. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

If  the  motorboat  plan  is  not  practicable  let  me  know  and 
I'll  go  by  train  or  steamer;  it  will  not  greatly  matter.  A.  B. 

*•»«•»«*» 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

Tuesday,  *    *    * 

August  8, 

I9"-  Kindly  convey  to  young  Smith  of  Auburn  my  felicita 
tions  on  his  admirable  "  Ode  to  the  Abyss  "  —  a  large  theme, 
treated  with  dignity  and  power.  It  has  many  striking  pas 
sages—such,  for  example,  as  "The  Romes  of  ruined 
spheres."  I'm  conscious  of  my  sin  against  the  rhetoricians 

*Addressed  to  George  Sterling  at  Sag  Harbor,  Long  Island. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce        1 8 1 

in  liking  that,  for  it  jolts  the  reader  out  of  the  Abyss  and 
back  to  earth.  Moreover,  it  is  a  metaphor  which  belittles, 
instead  of  dignifying.  But  I  like  it. 

He  is  evidently  a  student  of  George  Sterling,  and  being  in 
the  formative  stage,  cannot  — why  should  he?  — conceal 
the  fact. 

My  love  to  all  good  Californians  of  the  Sag  Harbor  colony. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
*•»*»*» 
DEAR  GEORGE, 
It  is  good  to  know  that  you  are  again  happy  —  that  is  to  Washington,  D.  c. 

.      r*  i    r*  s  L          •  re  November  16, 

say,  you  are  in  Carmel.  ±<or  jour  future  happiness  (if  sue-  i9n. 
cess  and  a  certain  rounding  off  of  your  corners  would  bring 
it,  as  I  think)  I  could  wish  you  in  New  York  or  thereabout. 
As  the  Scripture  hath  it:  "It  is  not  good  for  a  man  to  be  in 
Carmel"  —  Revised  Inversion.  I  note  that  at  the  late  elec 
tion  California  damned  herself  to  a  still  lower  degradation 
and  is  now  unfit  for  a  white  man  to  live  in.  Initiative,  ref 
erendum,  recall,  employers'  liability, woman  suffrage  —yah! 

*  *  * 

But  you  are  not  to  take  too  seriously  my  dislike  of*  *  *  * 
I  like  him  personally  very  well;  he  talks  like  a  normal  hu 
man  being.  It  is  only  that  damned  book  of  his.  He  was  here 
and  came  out  to  my  tenement  a  few  evenings  ago,  finding 
me  in  bed  and  helpless  from  lumbago,  as  I  was  for  weeks.  I 
am  now  able  to  sit  up  and  take  notice,  and  there  are  even 
fears  for  my  recovery.  My  enemies  would  say,  as  Byron 
said  of  Lady  B.,  I  am  becoming  "  dangerously  well  again." 

*  *  * 

As  to  harlots,  there  are  not  ten  in  a  hundred  that  are  such 

*Excised  by  G.  S. 


1  82         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

for  any  other  reason  than  that  they  wanted  to  be.  Their 
exculpatory  stories  are  mostly  lies  of  magnitude. 

Sloots  writes  me  that  he  will  perhaps  "walk  over"  from 
the  mine  to  Yosemite  next  summer.  I  can't  get  there  much 
before  July  first,  but  if  there  is  plenty  of  snow  in  the  moun 
tains  next  winter  the  valley  should  be  visitable  then.  Later, 
I  hope  to  beguest  myself  for  a  few  days  at  the  Pine  Inn, 
Carmel.  Tell  it  not  to  the  Point  Lobos  mussel! 

My  love  to  Carrie.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


a  "    DEAR  GEORGE, 

1911!     As  you  do  not  give  me  that  lady's  address  I  infer  that  you 
no  longer  care  to  have  me  meet  her—  which  is  a  relief  to  me. 

*  *  * 

Yes,  I'm  a  bit  broken  up  by  the  death  of  Pollard,  whose 
body  I  assisted  to  burn.  He  lost  his  mind,  was  paralyzed, 
had  his  head  cut  open  by  the  surgeons,  and  his  sufferings 
were  unspeakable.  Had  he  lived  he  would  have  been  an 
idiot;  so  it  is  all  right  — 

"But  O,  the  difference  to  me!" 

If  you  don't  think  him  pretty  bright  read  any  of  his  last 
three  books,  "Their  Day  in  Court,"  "Masks  and  Min 
strels,"  and  "Vagabond  Journeys."  He  did  not  see  the 
last  one  —  Neale  brought  down  copies  of  it  when  he  came 
to  Baltimore  to  attend  the  funeral. 

I'm  hoping  that  if  Carlt  and  Lora  go  to  Wagner's  mine 
and  we  go  to  Yosemite,  Lora,  at  least,  will  come  to  us  out 
there.  We  shall  need  her,  though  Carrie  will  find  that 
Misses  C.  and  S.  will  be  "  no  deadheads  in  the  enterprise  "  — 
to  quote  a  political  phrase  of  long  ago.  As  to  me,  I  shall 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce        1 83 

leave  my  ten-pounds-each  books  at  home  and,  like  St. 
Jerome,  who  never  traveled  with  other  baggage  than  a 
skull,  be  "flying  light." 
My  love  to  Carrie.  Sincerely, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

£*»  £•»  £»• 

DEAR  LORA, 

It  is  good  to  hear  from  you  again,  even  if  I  did  have  to  Washington,  D.  c 
give  you  a  hint  that  I  badly  needed  a  letter.  I9I2. 

I  am  glad  that  you  are  going  to  the  mine  (if  you  go)  — 
though  Berkeley  and  Oakland  will  not  be  the  same  without 
you.  And  where  can  I  have  my  mail  forwarded?  —  and  be 
permitted  to  climb  in  at  the  window  to  get  it.  As  to  pot- 
steaks,  toddies,  and  the  like,  I  shall  simply  swear  off  eating 
and  drinking. 

If  Carlt  is  a  "  game  sport, "  and  does  not  require  "  a  dead- 
sure  thing,"  the  mining  gamble  is  the  best  bet  for  him. 
Anything  to  get  out  of  that  deadening,  hopeless  grind,  the 
"Government  service."  It  kills  a  man's  self-respect,  atro 
phies  his  powers,  unfits  him  for  anything,  tempts  him  to 
improvidence  and  then  turns  him  out  to  starve. 

It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  there  is  a  hope  of  meeting  you 
in  Yosemite  —  the  valley  would  not  be  the  same  without 
you.  My  girls  cannot  leave  here  till  the  schools  close,  about 
June  20,  so  we  shall  not  get  into  the  valley  much  before 
July  first;  but  if  you  have  a  good  winter,  with  plenty  of 
snow,  that  will  do.  We  shall  stay  as  long  as  we  like.  George 
says  he  and  Carrie  can  go,  and  I  hope  Sloots  can.  It  is  likely 
that  Neale,  my  publisher,  will  be  of  my  party.  I  shall  hope 
to  visit  your  mine  afterward. 

*  *  * 

My  health,  which  was  pretty  bad  for  weeks  after  return- 


184         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

ing  from  Sag  Harbor,  is  restored,  and  I  was  never  so  young 
in  all  my  life. 

Here's  wishing  you  and  Carlt  plenty  of  meat  on  the  bone 
that  the  new  year  may  fling  to  you. 

Affectionately, 

AMBROSE. 
$i»j9»«fe 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

1910.  I'm  a  long  time  noticing  your  letter  of  January  fifth, 
chiefly  because,  like  Teddy,  "I  have  nothing  to  say." 
There's  this  difference  atwixt  him  and  me  —  I  could  say 
something  if  I  tried. 

*  *  *  I'm  hoping  that  you  are  at  work  and  doing  some 
thing  worth  while,  though  I  see  nothing  of  yours.  Battle 
against  the  encroaching  abalone  should  not  engage  all  your 
powers.  That  spearing  salmon  at  night  interests  me,  though 
doubtless  the  "season"  will  be  over  before  I  visit  Carmel. 

Bear  Yosemite  in  mind  for  latter  part  of  June,  and  use 
influence  with  Lora  and  Grizzly,  even  if  Carlt  should  be 
inhumed  in  his  mine. 

We've  had  about  seven  weeks  of  snow  and  ice,  the  mer 
cury  around  the  zero  mark  most  of  the  time.  Once  it  was  13 
below.  You'd  not  care  for  that  sort  of  thing,  I  fancy.  In 
deed,  I'm  a  bit  fatigued  of  it  myself,  and  on  Saturday  next, 
God  willing,  shall  put  out  my  prow  to  sea  and  bring  up,  I 
hope,  in  Bermuda,  not,  of  course,  to  remain  long. 

You  did  not  send  me  the  Weininger  article  on  "Sex  and 
Character"  — I  mean  the  extract  that  you  thought  like 
some  of  my  stuff. 


*  * 


Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         185 

DEAR  GEORGE, 

I  did  not  go  to  Bermuda;  so  I'm  not  "  back. "  But  I  did  go  Washington,  D.  c. 
to  Richmond,  a  city  whose  tragic  and  pathetic  history,  of 
which  one  is  reminded  by  everything  that  one  sees  there, 
always  gets  on  to  my  nerves  with  a  particular  dejection. 
True,  the  history  is  some  fifty  years  old,  but  it  is  always 
with  me  when  I'm  there,  making  solemn  eyes  at  me. 

You're  right  about  "this  season  in  the  East."  It  has  in 
deed  been  penetential.  For  the  first  time  I  am  thoroughly 
disgusted  and  half-minded  to  stay  in  California  when  I  go  — 
a  land  where  every  prospect  pleases,  and  only  labor  unions, 
progressives, suffragettes  (and  socialists)  are  vile.  No,  I  don't 
think  I  could  stand  California,  though  I'm  still  in  the  mind 
to  visit  it  in  June.  I  shall  be  sorry  to  miss  Carrie  at  Car- 
mel,but  hope  to  have  the  two  of  you  on  some  excursion  or 
camping  trip.  We  want  to  go  to  Yosemite,  which  the  girls 
have  not  seen,  but  if  there's  no  water  there  it  may  not  be 
advisable.  Guess  we'll  have  to  let  you  natives  decide.  How 

would  the  Big  Trees  do  as  a  substitute? 

*  *  * 

Girls  is  pizen,  but  not  necessarily  fatal.  I've  taken  'em  in 
large  doses  all  my  life,  and  suffered  pangs  enough  to  equip 
a  number  of  small  Hells,  but  never  has  one  of  them  par 
alyzed  the  inner  working  man.  *  *  *  But  I'm  not  a  poet. 
Moreover,  as  I've  not  yet  put  off  my  armor  I  oughtn't  to 
boast. 

So  —  you've  subscribed  for  the  Collected  Works.  Good! 
that  is  what  you  ought  to  have  done  a  long  time  ago.  It  is 
what  every  personal  friend  of  mine  ought  to  have  done,  for 
all  profess  admiration  of  my  work  in  literature.  It  is  what 
I  was  fool  enough  to  permit  my  publisher  to  think  that 
many  of  them  would  do.  How  many  do  you  guess  have 


1 86         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

done  so?  I'll  leave  you  guessing.  God  help  the  man  with 
many  friends,  for  they  will  not.  My  royalties  on  the  sets 
sold  to  my  friends  are  less  than  one-fourth  of  my  outlay  in 
free  sets  for  other  friends.  Tell  me  not  in  cheerful  numbers 
of  the  value  and  sincerity  of  friendships. 

*  *  * 

There!  I've  discharged  my  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
and  shall  take  a  drink.  Here's  to  you. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

Washington,  D.  C.,    DEAR  GEORGE, 

June  5,  *    *    * 

1912. 

Thank  you  for  the  poems,  which  I've  not  had  the  time  to 
consider  —  being  disgracefully  busy  in  order  to  get  away. 
I  don't  altogether  share  your  reverence  for  Browning,  but 
the  primacy  of  your  verses  on  him  over  the  others  printed 
on  the  same  page  is  almost  startling.  *  *  * 

Of  course  it's  all  nonsense  about  the  waning  of  your 
power  —  though  thinking  it  so  might  make  it  so.  My  notion 
is  that  you've  only  begun  to  do  things.  But  I  wish  you'd  go 
back  to  your  chain  in  your  uncle's  office.  I'm  no  believer  in 
adversity  and  privation  as  a  spur  to  Pegasus.  They  are 
oftener  a  "hopple."  The  "meagre,  muse-rid  mope,  adust 
and  thin"  will  commonly  do  better  work  when  tucked  out 
with  three  square  meals  a  day,  and  having  the  sure  and 
certain  hope  of  their  continuance. 

*  *  * 

I'm  expecting  to  arrive  in  Oakland  (Key  Route  Inn, 
probably)  late  in  the  evening  of  the  22d  of  this  month  and 
dine  at  Carlt's  on  the  24th  —  my  birthday.  Anyhow,  I've 
invited  myself,  though  it  is  possible  they  may  be  away  on 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         187 

their  vacation.  Carlt  has  promised  to  try  to  get  his  "leave" 
changed  to  a  later  date  than  the  one  he's  booked  for. 

*  *  * 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

P.  S.  —  Just  learned  that  we  can  not  leave  here  until  the 
1  9th  —  which  will  bring  me  into  San  Francisco  on  the  26th. 
Birthday  dinner  served  in  diner  —  last  call! 

I've  read  the  Browning  poem  and  I  now  know  why  there 
was  a  Browning.  Providence  foresaw  you  and  prepared  him 
for  you  —  blessed  be  Providence  !  *  *  * 

Mrs.  Havens  asks  me  to  come  to  them  at  Sag  Harbor  — 
and  shouldn't  I  like  to!  *  *  *  Sure  the  song  of  the  Sag 
Harbor  frog  would  be  music  to  me  —  as  would  that  of  the 
indigenous  duckling. 


MY  DEAR  MR.  CAHILL, 

I  thank  you  for  the  article  from  The  Argonaut,  and  am  The  Army  and 
glad  to  get  it  for  a  special  reason,  as  it  gives  me  your  ad-  Washington,  D.  c, 
dress  and  thereby  enables  me  to  explain  something.  December  19, 

When,  several  years  ago,  you  sent  me  a  similar  article  I 
took  it  to  the  editor  of  The  National  Geographical  Maga 
zine  (I  am  a  member  of  the  Society  that  issues  it)  and  sug 
gested  its  publication.  I  left  it  with  him  and  hearing  noth 
ing  about  it  for  several  months  called  at  his  office  twice  for 
an  answer,  and  for  the  copy  if  publication  was  refused. 
The  copy  had  been  "mislaid"  —  lost,  apparently  —  and  I 
never  obtained  it.  Meantime,  either  I  had  "mislaid"  your 
address,  or  it  was  only  on  the  copy.  So  I  was  unable  to 
write  you.  Indirectly,  afterward,  I  heard  that  you  had  left 
California  for  parts  to  me  unknown. 


1  88         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

Twice  since  then  I  have  been  in  San  Francisco,  but  con 
fess  that  I  did  not  think  of  the  matter. 

Cahill's  projection*  is  indubitably  the  right  one,  but  you 
are  "up  against"  the  ages  and  will  be  a  long  time  dead 
before  it  finds  favor,  or  I'm  no  true  pessimist. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


TheOlympia    MY  DEAR  RuTH 


Apartments,        T>«  ii»i  T  ii»  ••       /~^ 

Washington,  D.  c.,  It  s  too  bad  that  1  couldn  t  remain  in  Oakland  and 
January  17,  Berk;eley  another  month  to  welcome  you,  but  I  fear  it  will 
"have  to  go  at  that,"  for  I've  no  expectation  of  ever  seeing 
California  again.  I  like  the  country  as  well  as  ever,  but  I 
dont  like  the  rule  of  labor  unions,  the  grafters  and  the  suf 
fragettes.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned  they  may  stew  in  their 
own  juice;  I  shall  not  offer  myself  as  an  ingredient. 

It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  you  are  all  well,  including 
Johnny,  poor  little  chap. 

You  are  right  to  study  philology  and  rhetoric.  Surely 
there  must  be  some  provision  for  your  need  —  a  university 
where  one  cannot  learn  one's  own  language  would  be  a 
funny  university. 

I  think  your  "Mr.  Wells"  who  gave  a  course  of  lectures 
on  essay  writing  may  be  m;f  friend  Wells  Drury,  of  Berke 
ley.  If  so,  mention  me  to  him  and  he  will  advise  you  what 
to  do. 

Another  good  friend  of  mine,  whom,  however  I  did  not 
succeed  in  seeing  during  either  of  my  visits  to  California,  is 
W.  C.  Morrow,  who  is  a  professional  teacher  of  writing  and 
himself  a  splendid  writer.  He  could  help  you.  He  lives  in 
San  Francisco,  but  I  think  has  a  class  in  Oakland.  I  don't 

The  Butterfly  Map  of  the  World. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce        189 

know  his  address;  you'll  find  it  in  the  directory.  He  used  to 
write  stories  splendidly  tragic,  but  I'm  told  he  now  teaches 
the  "happy  ending,"  in  which  he  is  right  —  commercial 
ly  —  but  disgusting.  I  can  cordially  recommend  him. 

Keep  up  your  German  and  French  of  course.  If  your 
English  (your  mother  speech)  is  so  defective,  think  what 
they  must  be. 

I'll  think  of  some  books  that  will  be  helpful  to  you  in  your 
English.  Meantime  send  me  anything  that  you  care  to  that 
you  write.  It  will  at  least  show  me  what  progress  you  make. 

I'm  returning  some  (all,  I  think)  of  your  sketches.  Don't 
destroy  them  —  yet.  Maybe  some  day  you'll  find  them 
worth  rewriting.  My  love  to  you  all. 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
«•»*•»*» 
DEAR  MR.  CAHILL, 

It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  you  are  not  easily  discouraged 
by  the  croaking  of  such  ravens  as  I,  and  I  confess  that  the  Washington, D.  c** 
matter  of  the  "civic  centre"  supplies  some  reason  to  hope  Ja^uai72°> 
for  prosperity  to  the  Cahill  projection  —  which  (another 
croak)  will  doubtless  bear  some  other  man's  name,  prob 
ably  Hayford's  or  Woodward's. 

I  sent  the  "Argonaut"  article  to  my  friend  Dr.  Franklin, 
of  Schenectady,  a  "scientific  gent"  of  some  note,  but  have 
heard  nothing  from  him. 

I'm  returning  the  "Chronicle  "article,  which  I  found  inter 
esting.  If  I  were  not  a  writer  without  an  "organ"  I'd  have 
a  say  about  that  projection.  For  near  four  years  I've  been 
out  of  the  newspaper  game  —  a  mere  compiler  of  my  col 
lected  works  in  twelve  volumes  —  and  shall  probably  never 
"sit  into  the  game"  again,  being  seventy  years  old.  My 
work  is  finished,  and  so  am  I. 


190         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

Luck  to  you  in  the  new  year,  and  in  many  to  follow. 

Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


TheOlympia    DEAR  LoRA, 

!      I  have  been  searching  for  your  letter  of  long  ago,  fearing 
i  prefer  to  get  my  jt  contained  something  that  I  should  have  replied  to.  But  I 

letters  at  this  address.      -,,/-•,•  TII  •  • 

Make  a  memorandum  don  t  find  it;  so  1  make  the  convenient  assumption  that  it 

did  «Ot. 

-  I'd  like  to  hear  from  you,  however  unworthy  I  am  to  do 
so,  for  I  want  to  know  if  you  and  Carlt  have  still  a  hope  of 
going  mining.  Pray  God  you  do,  if  there's  a  half-chance  of 
success;  for  success  in  the  service  of  the  Government  is 
failure. 

Winter  here  is  two-thirds  gone  and  we  have  not  had  a 
cold  day,  and  only  one  little  dash  of  snow  —  on  Christmas 
eve.  Can  California  beat  that?  I'm  told  it's  as  cold  there  as 
in  Greenland. 

Tellme  about  yourself  —your  health  since  the  operation  — 
how  it  has  affected  you  —  all  about  you.  My  own  health 
is  excellent;  I'm  equal  to  any  number  of  Carlt's  toddies.  By 
the  way,  Blanche  has  made  me  a  co-defendant  with  you  in 
the  crime  (once  upon  a  time)  of  taking  a  drop  too  much.  I 
plead  not  guilty  —  how  do  you  plead?  Sloots,  at  least, 
would  acquit  us  on  the  ground  of  inability  —  that  one 
cant  take  too  much.  *  *  *  Affectionately,  your  avuncular, 

AMBROSE. 


Washington,  D.  C,    DEAR  RUTH, 

j>m  returnjng  y0ur  iittie  sketches  with  a  few  markings 
which  are  to  be  regarded  (or  disregarded)  as  mere  sugges 
tions.  I  made  them  in  pencil,  so  that  you  can  erase  them  if 


"The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         191 

you  don't  approve.  Of  course  I  should  make  many  more  if 
I  could  have  you  before  me  so  that  I  could  explain  why\  in 
this  way  I  can  help  you  but  little.  You'll  observe  that  I 
have  made  quite  a  slaughter  of  some  of  the  adjectives  in 
some  of  your  sentences  —  you  will  doubtless  slaughter  some 
in  others.  Nearly  all  young  writers  use  too  many  adjec 
tives.  Indeed,  moderation  and  skill  in  the  use  of  adjectives 
are  about  the  last  things  a  good  writer  learns.  Don't  use 
those  that  are  connoted  by  the  nouns;  and  rather  than 
have  all  the  nouns,  or  nearly  all,  in  a  sentence  outfitted 
with  them  it  is  better  to  make  separate  sentences  for  some 
of  those  desired. 

In  your  sketch  "Triumph"  I  would  not  name  the  "hero" 
of  the  piece.  To  do  so  not  only  makes  the  sketch  common 
place,  but  it  logically  requires  you  to  name  his  victim  too, 
and  her  offense;  in  brief,  it  commits  you  to  a  story. 

A  famous  writer  (perhaps  Holmes  or  Thackeray  —  I  don't 
remember)  once  advised  a  young  writer  to  cut  all  the  pas 
sages  that  he  thought  particularly  good.  Your  taste  I  think 
is  past  the  need  of  so  heroic  treatment  as  that,  but  the  ad 
vice  may  be  profitably  borne  in  memory  whenever  you  are 
in  doubt,  if  ever  you  are.  And  sometimes  you  will  be. 

I  think  I  know  what  Mr.  Morrow  meant  by  saying  that 
your  characters  are  not  "humanly  significant."  He  means 
that  they  are  not  such  persons  as  one  meets  in  everyday 
life  —  not  "types."  I  confess  that  I  never  could  see  why 
one's  characters  should  be.  The  exceptional  —  even  "  ab 
normal"  —  person  seems  to  me  the  more  interesting,  but  I 
must  warn  you  that  he  will  not  seem  so  to  an  editor.  Nor  to 
an  editor  will  the  tragic  element  seem  so  good  as  the  cheer 
ful  —  the  sombre  denouement  as  the  "happy  ending. "  One 
must  have  a  pretty  firm  reputation  as  a  writer  to  "send  in" 


1 92         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

a  tragic  or  supernatural  tale  with  any  hope  of  its  accept 
ance.  The  average  mind  (for  which  editors  purvey,  and 
mostly  possess)  dislikes,  or  thinks  it  dislikes,  any  literature 
that  is  not  "sunny."  True,  tragedy  holds  the  highest  and 
most  permanent  place  in  the  world's  literature  and  art,  but 
it  has  the  divvel's  own  time  getting  to  it.  For  immediate 
popularity  (if  one  cares  for  it)  one  must  write  pleasant 
things;  though  one  may  put  in  here  and  there  a  bit  of 
pathos. 

I  think  well  of  these  two  manuscripts,  but  doubt  if  you 
can  get  them  into  any  of  our  magazines  —  if  you  want  to. 
As  to  that,  nobody  can  help  you.  About  the  only  good 
quality  that  a  magazine  editor  commonly  has  is  his  firm 
reliance  on  the  infallibility  of  his  own  judgment.  It  is  an 
honest  error,  and  it  enables  him  to  mull  through  somehow 
with  a  certain  kind  of  consistency.  The  only  way  to  get  a 
footing  with  him  is  to  send  him  what  you  think  he  wants, 
not  what  you  think  he  ought  to  want  —  and  keep  sending. 
But  perhaps  you  do  not  care  for  the  magazines. 

I  note  a  great  improvement  in  your  style  —  probably  no 
more  than  was  to  be  expected  of  your  better  age,  but  a  dis 
tinct  improvement.  It  is  a  matter  of  regret  with  me  that  I 
have  not  the  training  of  you;  we  should  see  what  would 
come  of  it.  You  certainly  have  no  reason  for  discourage 
ment.  But  if  you  are  to  be  a  writer  you  must  "cut  out"  the 
dances  and  the  teas  (a  little  of  the  theater  may  be  allowed) 
and  work  right  heartily.  The  way  of  the  good  writer  is  no 
primrose  path. 

No,  I  have  not  read  the  poems  of  Service.  What  do  I 
think  of  Edith  Wharton?  Just  what  Pollard  thought  —see 
Their  Day  in  Court,  which  I  think  you  have. 

I  fear  you  have  the  wanderlust  incurably.  I  never  had  it 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         193 

bad,  and  have  less  of  it  now  than  ever  before.  I  shall  not 
see  California  again. 

My  love  to  all  your  family  goes  with  this,  and  to  you  all 
that  you  will  have.  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

£<N  £*»  £€» 

EDITOR  "LANTERN/'* 
Will  I  tell  you  what  I  think  of  your  magazine?  Sure  I  will.  The  Arm^  and 

,      ,  i  •  •  r  i  •  Nayy Club> 

It  has  thirty-six  pages  or  reading  matter.  Washington,  D.  c., 

Seventeen  are  given  to  the  biography  of  a  musician,  — 
German,  dead. 

Four  to  the  mother  of  a  theologian,  —  German,  peasant- 
wench,  dead. 

(The  mag.  is  published  in  America,  to-day.) 

Five  pages  about  Eugene  Field's  ancestors.  All  dead. 

17+4+5  =  26. 

36  —  26=10. 

Two  pages  about  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

Three-fourths  page  about  a  bad  poet  and  his  indifference 
to  —  German. 

Two  pages  of  his  poetry. 

2+^+2=4%:. 

10— 4^  =  5^.  Not  enough  to  criticise. 
What  your  magazine  needs  is  an  editor  —  presumably 
older,  preferably  American,  and  indubitably  alive.  At  least 
awake.  It  is  your  inning.  Sincerely  yours, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 
&+>  &*•  s«* 

MY  DEAR  LORA, 

You  were  so  long  in  replying  to  my  letter  of  the  century  Washington,  D.  c, 
before  last,  and  as  your  letter  is  not  really  a  reply  to  any- 

The  editor  was  Curtis  J.  Kirch  ("Guido  Bruno")  and  the  weekly  had  a  brief  career 
in  Chicago.  It  was  the  forerunner  of  the  many  Bruno  weeklies  and  monthlies,  later 
published  from  other  cities. 


194         7ra  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

thing  in  mine,  that  I  fancy  you  did  not  get  it.  I  don't  recol 
lect,  for  example,  that  you  ever  acknowledged  receipt  of 
little  pictures  of  myself,  though  maybe  you  did  —  I  only 
hope  you  got  them.  The  photographs  that  you  send  are 
very  interesting.  One  of  them  makes  me  thirsty  —  the  one 
of  that  fountainhead  of  good  booze,  your  kitchen  sink. 

What  you  say  of  the  mine  and  how  you  are  to  be  housed 
there  pleases  me  mightily.  That's  how  I  should  like  to  live, 
and  mining  is  what  I  should  like  again  to  do.  Pray  God  you 
be  not  disappointed. 

Alas,  I  cannot  even  join  you  during  Carlt's  vacation,  for 
the  mountain  ramble.  Please  "go  slow"  in  your  goating 
this  year.  I  think  you  are  better  fitted  for  it  than  ever  be 
fore,  but  you'd  better  ask  your  surgeon  about  that.  By  the 
way,  do  you  know  that  since  women  took  to  athletics  their 
peculiar  disorders  have  increased  about  fifty  per  cent?  You 
can't  make  men  of  women.  The  truth  is,  they've  taken  to 
walking  on  their  hind  legs  a  few  centuries  too  soon.  Their 
in'ards  have  not  learned  how  to  suspend  the  law  of  gravity. 
Add  the  jolts  of  athletics  and  —  there  you  are. 

I  wish  I  could  be  with  you  at  Monte  Sano—  or  anywhere. 

Love  to  Carlt  and  Sloots.  Affectionately,      AMBROSE. 


Washington,  D.  C,    DEAR  LoRA, 

September^,  your  letter  was  forwarded  to  me  in  New  York,  whence  I 
have  just  returned.  I  fancy  you  had  a  more  satisfactory 
outing  than  I.  I  never  heard  of  the  Big  Sur  river  nor  of 
"Arbolado."  But  I'm  glad  you  went  there,  for  I'm  hearing 
so  much  about  Hetch  Hetchy  that  I'm  tired  of  it.  I'm  help 
ing  the  San  Francisco  crowd  (a  little)  to  "ruin"  it. 

*  *  * 

I'm  glad  to  know  that  you  still  expect  to  go  to  the  mine. 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce        195 

Success  or  failure,  it  is  better  than  the  Mint,  and  you  ought 
to  live  in  the  mountains  where  you  can  climb  things  when 
ever  you  want  to. 

Of  course  I  know  nothing  of  Neale's  business  —  you'd 
better  write  to  him  if  he  has  not  filled  your  order.  I  suppose 
you  know  that  volumes  eleven  and  twelve  are  not  included 
in  the  "set." 

If  you  care  to  write  to  me  again  please  do  so  at  once  as  I 
am  going  away,  probably  to  South  America,  but  if  we  have 
a  row  with  Mexico  before  I  start  I  shall  go  there  first.  I 
want  to  see  something  going  on.  I've  no  notion  of  how  long 
I  shall  remain  away. 

With  love  to  Carlt  and  Sloots,        Affectionately, 

AMBROSE. 
£•»«•»«•» 
DEAR  JOE,* 

The  reason  that  I  did  not  answer  your  letter  sooner  is  —  I  Washington,  D.  c., 
have  been  away  (in  New  York)  and  did  not  have  it  with  i^!™ 
me.  I  suppose  I  shall  not  see  your  book  for  a  long  time,  for  I 
am  going  away  and  have  no  notion  when  I  shall  return.  I 
expect  to  go  to,  perhaps  across,  South  America  —  possibly 
via  Mexico,  if  I  can  get  through  without  being  stood  up 
against  a  wall  and  shot  as  a  Gringo.  But  that  is  better  than 
dying  in  bed,  is  it  not  ?  If  Due  did  not  need  you  so  badly  I'd 
ask  you  to  get  your  hat  and  come  along.  God  bless  and 
keep  you.  *  *  * 

**«**» 
DEAR  JOE, 

Thank  you  for  the  book.  I  thank  you  for  your  friendship  —  Washington,  D.  c, 
and  much  besides.  This  is  to  say  good-by  at  the  end  of  a  ^ember  I3> 
pleasant  correspondence  in  which  your  woman's  preroga- 

*To  Mrs.  Josephine  Clifford  McCrackin,  San  Jose,  California. 


196         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

tive  of  having  the  last  word  is  denied  to  you.  Before  I  could 
receive  it  I  shall  be  gone.  But  some  time,  somewhere,  I 
hope  to  hear  from  you  again.  Yes,  I  shall  go  into  Mexico 
with  a  pretty  definite  purpose,  which,  however,  is  not  at 
present  disclosable.  You  must  try  to  forgive  my  obstinacy 
in  not  "perishing"  where  I  am.  I  want  to  be  where  some 
thing  worth  while  is  going  on,  or  where  nothing  whatever 
is  going  on.  Most  of  what  is  going  on  in  your  own  country 
is  exceedingly  distasteful  to  me. 

Pray  for  me?  Why,  yes,  dear  —  that  will  not  harm  either 
of  us.  I  loathe  religions,  a  Christian  gives  me  qualms  and  a 
Catholic  sets  my  teeth  on  edge,  but  pray  for  me  just  the 
same,  for  with  all  those  faults  upon  your  head  (it's  a  nice 
head,  too),  I  am  pretty  fond  of  you,  I  guess.  May  you  live 
as  long  as  you  want  to,  and  then  pass  smilingly  into  the 
darkness  —  the  good,  good  darkness. 

Devotedly  your  friend, 

AMBROSE  BIERCE. 


TheOlympla,    DEAR  LoRA, 

Euclid  Street,        T  r  i  •  i  •     •  i 

Washington,  D.  c.^  I  g°  away  tomorrow  for  a  long  time,  so  this  is  only  to  say 
October  i,  good-bye.  I  think  there  is  nothing  else  worth  saying;  there 
fore  you  will  naturally  expect  a  long  letter.  What  an  intol 
erable  world  this  would  be  if  we  said  nothing  but  what  is 
worth  saying!  And  did  nothing  foolish  —  like  going  into 
Mexico  and  South  America. 

I'm  hoping  that  you  will  go  to  the  mine  soon.  You  must 
hunger  and  thirst  for  the  mountains  —  Carlt  likewise.  So  do 
I.  Civilization  be  dinged!  —  it  is  the  mountains  and  the 
desert  for  me. 

Good-bye  —  if  you  hear  of  my  being  stood  up  against  a 
Mexican  stone  wall  and  shot  to  rags  please  know  that  I 


'The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce         197 

___________^^^^___—  ___——^-_—  ——————  —————  —^_—  —__—_—  ^________-^______^_ 

think  that  a  pretty  good  way  to  depart  this  life.  It  beats 
old  age,  disease,  or  falling  down  the  cellar  stairs.  To  be  a 
Gringo  in  Mexico  —  ah,  that  is  euthanasia! 
With  love  to  Carlt,  affectionately  yours,       AMBROSE. 


MY  DEAR  LORA, 

I  think  I  owe  you  a  letter,  and  probably  this  is  my  only  Laredo,  Texas, 
chance  to  pay  up  for  a  long  time.  For  more  than  a  month  I  I9°^em  r  ' 
have  been  rambling  about  the  country,  visiting  my  old 
battlefields,  passing  a  few  days  in  New  Orleans,  a  week  in 
San  Antonio,  and  so  forth.  I  turned  up  here  this  morning. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  fighting  going  on  over  on  the  Mexi 
can  side  of  the  Rio  Grande,  but  I  hold  to  my  intention  to 
go  into  Mexico  if  I  can.  In  the  character  of  "  innocent  by 
stander"  I  ought  to  be  fairly  safe  if  I  don't  have  too  much 
money  on  me,  don't  you  think?  My  eventual  destination  is 
South  America,  but  probably  I  shall  not  get  there  this  year. 

Sloots  writes  me  that  you  and  Carlt  still  expect  to  go  to 
the  mine,  as  I  hope  you  will. 

The  Cowdens  expect  to  live  somewhere  in  California 
soon,  I  believe.  They  seem  to  be  well,  prosperous  and 
cheerful. 

With  love  to  Carlt  and  Sloots,  I  am  affectionately  yours, 

AMBROSE. 

P.  S.  You  need  not  believe  all  that  these  newspapers  say 
of  me  and  my  purposes.  I  had  to  tell  them  something. 

s«*  &**  §** 
DEAR  LORA, 

I  wrote  you  yesterday  at  San  Antonio,  but  dated  the  let-  Laredo,  Texas, 
ter  here  and  today,  expecting  to  bring  the  letter  and  mail  it 
here.  That's  because  I  did  not  know  if  I  would  have  time 


198         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

to  write  it  here.  Unfortunately,  I  forgot  and  posted  it, 
with  other  letters,  where  it  was  written.  Thus  does  man's 
guile  come  to  naught! 

Well,  I'm  here,  anyhow,  and  have  time  to  explain. 

Laredo  was  a  Mexican  city  before  it  was  an  American.  It 
is  Mexican  now,  five  to  one.  Nuevo  Laredo,  opposite,  is 
held  by  the  Huertistas  and  Americans  don't  go  over  there. 
In  fact  a  guard  on  the  bridge  will  not  let  them.  So  those 
that  sneak  across  have  to  wade  (which  can  be  done  almost 
anywhere)  and  go  at  night. 

I  shall  not  be  here  long  enough  to  hear  from  you,  and 
don't  know  where  I  shall  be  next.  Guess  it  doesn't  matter 
much.  Adios, 

AMBROSE. 


199 


Extracts  from  Letters 


You  are  right  too  —  dead  right  about  the  poetry  of  Social 
ism;  and  you  might  have  added  the  poetry  of  wailing  about 
the  woes  of  the  poor  generally.  Only  the  second-  and  the 
third-raters  write  it  —  except  "incidentally."  You  don't 
find  the  big  fellows  sniveling  over  that  particular  shadow- 
side  of  Nature.  Yet  not  only  are  the  poor  always  with  us, 
they  always  were  with  us,  and  their  state  was  worse  in  the 
times  of  Homer,  Virgil,  Shakspeare,  Milton  and  the  others 
than  in  the  days  of  Morris  and  Markham. 


But  what's  the  use?  I  have  long  despaired  of  convincing 
poets  and  artists  of  anything,  even  that  white  is  not  black. 
I'm  convinced  that  all  you  chaps  ought  to  have  a  world  to 
yourselves,  where  two  and  two  make  whatever  you  prefer 
that  it  should  make,  and  cause  and  effect  are  remoulded 
"more  nearly  to  the  heart's  desire."  And  then  I  suppose  I'd 
want  to  go  and  live  there  too. 


Did  you  ever  know  so  poor  satire  to  make  so  great  a  row 
as  that  of  Watson?  Compared  with  certain  other  verses 
against  particular  women  —  Byron's  "  Born  in  a  garret,  in  a 
kitchen  bred";  even  my  own  skit  entitled  "Mad"  (pardon 
my  modesty)  it  is  infantile.  What  an  interesting  book 


200         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

might  be  made  of  such  "attacks"  on  women!  But  Watson 
is  the  only  one  of  us,  so  far  as  I  remember,  who  has  had  the 
caddishness  to  name  the  victim. 

Have  you  seen  Percival  Pollard's  "Their  Day  in  Court"? 
It  is  amusing,  clever  —  and  more.  He  has  a  whole  chapter 
on  me,  "a  lot"  about  Gertrude  Atherton,  and  much  else 
that  is  interesting.  And  he  skins  alive  certain  popular  gods 
and  goddesses  of  the  day,  and  is  "monstrous  naughty." 


As  to  *  *  *  's  own  character  I  do  not  see  what  that  has 
to  do  with  his  criticism  of  London.  If  only  the  impeccable 
delivered  judgment  no  judgment  would  ever  be  delivered. 
All  men  could  do  as  they  please,  without  reproof  or  dissent. 
I  wish  you  would  take  your  heart  out  of  your  head,  old 
man.  The  best  heart  makes  a  bad  head  if  housed  there. 


The  friends  that  warned  you  against  the  precarious  na 
ture  of  my  friendship  were  right.  To  hold  my  regard  one 
must  fulfil  hard  conditions  —  hard  if  one  is  not  what  one 
should  be;  easy  if  one  is.  I  have,  indeed,  a  habit  of  calmly 
considering  the  character  of  a  man  with  whom  I  have  fallen 
into  any  intimacy  and,  whether  I  have  any  grievance 
against  him  or  not,  informing  him  by  letter  that  I  no 
longer  desire  his  acquaintance.  This,  I  do  after  deciding 
that  he  is  not  truthful,  candid,  without  conceit,  and  so 
forth  —  in  brief,  honorable.  If  any  one  is  conscious  that  he 
is  not  in  all  respects  worthy  of  my  friendship  he  would  bet 
ter  not  cultivate  it,  for  assuredly  no  one  can  long  conceal 
his  true  character  from  an  observant  student  of  it.  Yes,  my 
friendship  is  a  precarious  possession.  It  grows  more  so  the 
longer  I  live,  and  the  less  I  feel  the  need  of  a  multitude  of 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce         201 

friends.  So,  if  in  your  heart  you  are  conscious  of  being  any 
of  the  things  which  you  accuse  me  of  being,  or  anything 
else  equally  objectionable  (to  me)  I  can  only  advise  you  to 
drop  me  before  I  drop  you. 

Certainly  you  have  an  undoubted  right  to  your  opinion 
of  my  ability,  my  attainments  and  my  standing.  If  you 
choose  to  publish  a  censorious  judgment  of  these  matters, 
do  so  by  all  means:  I  don't  think  I  ever  cared  a  cent  for 
what  was  printed  about  me,  except  as  it  supplied  me  with 
welcome  material  for  my  pen.  One  may  presumably  have  a 
"sense  of  duty  to  the  public,"  and  the  like.  But  convincing 
one  person  (one  at  a  time)  of  one's  friend's  deficiencies  is 
hardly  worth  while,  and  is  to  be  judged  differently.  It 
comes  under  another  rule.  *  *  * 

Maybe,  as  you  say,  my  work  lacks  "soul,"  but  my  life 
does  not,  as  a  man's  life  is  the  man.  Personally,  I  hold  that 
sentiment  has  a  place  in  this  world,  and  that  loyalty  to  a 
friend  is  not  inferior  as  a  characteristic  to  correctness  of 
literary  judgment.  If  there  is  a  heaven  I  think  it  is  more 
valued  there.  If  Mr.  *  *  *  (your  publisher  as  well  as  mine) 
had  considered  you  a  Homer,  a  Goethe  or  a  Shakspeare  a 
team  of  horses  could  not  have  drawn  from  me  the  expres 
sion  of  a  lower  estimate.  And  let  me  tell  you  that  if  you  are 
going  through  life  as  a  mere  thinking  machine,  ignoring  the 
generous  promptings  of  the  heart,  sacrificing  it  to  the 
brain,  you  will  have  a  hard  row  to  hoe,  and  the  outcome, 
when  you  survey  it  from  the  vantage  ground  of  age,  will 
not  please  you.  You  seem  to  me  to  be  beginning  rather 
badly,  as  regards  both  your  fortune  and  your  peace  of 

mind-  *  *  * 

I  saw  *  *  *  every  day  while  in  New  York,  and  he  does  not 


202         The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Eierce 

know  that  I  feel  the  slightest  resentment  toward  you,  nor 
do  I  know  it  myself.  So  far  as  he  knows,  or  is  likely  to  know 
(unless  you  will  have  it  otherwise)  you  and  I  are  the  best  of 
friends,  or  rather,  I  am  the  best  of  friends  to  you.  And  I 
guess  that  is  so.  I  could  no  more  hate  you  for  your  disposi 
tion  and  character  than  I  could  for  your  hump  if  you  had 
one.  You  are  as  Nature  has  made  you,  and  your  defects, 
whether  they  are  great  or  small,  are  your  misfortunes.  I 
would  remove  them  if  I  could,  but  I  know  that  I  cannot, 
for  one  of  them  is  inability  to  discern  the  others,  even  when 
they  are  pointed  out. 

I  must  commend  your  candor  in  one  thing.  You  confirm 
*  *  *  words  in  saying  that  you  commented  on  "my  seem 
ing  lack  of  sympathy  with  certain  modern  masters,"  which 
you  attribute  to  my  not  having  read  them.  That  is  a  con 
clusion  to  which  a  low  order  of  mind  in  sympathy  with  the 
"modern  masters"  naturally  jumps,  but  it  is  hardly 
worthy  of  a  man  of  your  brains.  It  is  like  your  former  lofty 
assumption  that  I  had  not  read  some  ten  or  twelve  phil 
osophers,  naming  them,  nearly  all  of  whom  I  had  read,  and 
laughed  at,  before  you  were  born.  In  fact,  one  of  your  most 
conspicuous  characteristics  is  the  assumption  that  what  a 
a  man  who  does  not  care  to  "  talk  shop"  does  not  speak  of, 
and  vaunt  his  knowledge  of,  he  does  not  know.  I  once 
thought  this  a  boyish  fault,  but  you  are  no  longer  a  boy. 
Your  "modern  masters"  are  Ibsen  and  Shaw,  with  both  of 
whose  works  and  ways  I  am  thoroughly  familiar,  and  both 
of  whom  I  think  very  small  men  —  pets  of  the  drawing- 
room  and  gods  of  the  hour.  No,  I  am  not  an  "up  to  date" 
critic,  thank  God.  I  am  not  a  literary  critic  at  all,  and  never, 
or  very  seldom,  have  gone  into  that  field  except  in  pur 
suance  of  a  personal  object  —  to  help  a  good  writer  (who  is 


The  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce        203 

commonly  a  friend)  —maybe  you  can  recall  such  instances  — 
or  laugh  at  a  fool.  Surely  you  do  not  consider  my  work 
in  the  Cosmopolitan  (mere  badinage  and  chaff,  the  only 
kind  of  stuff  that  the  magazine  wants  from  me,  or  will 
print)  essays  in  literary  criticism.  It  has  never  occurred  to 
me  to  look  upon  myself  as  a  literary  critic ;  if  you  must 
prick  my  bubble  please  to  observe  that  it  contains  more  of 
your  breath  than  of  mine.  Yet  you  have  sometimes  seemed  to 
value,  I  thought,  some  of  my  notions  about  even  poetry.*  *  * 

Perhaps  I  am  unfortunate  in  the  matter  of  keeping 
friends;  I  know,  and  have  abundant  reason  to  know,  that 
you  are  at  least  equally  luckless  in  the  matter  of  making 
them.  I  could  put  my  finger  on  the  very  qualities  in  you 
that  make  you  so,  and  the  best  service  that  I  could  do  you 
would  be  to  point  them  out  and  take  the  consequences. 
That  is  to  say,  it  would  serve  you  many  years  hence;  at 
present  you  are  like  Carlyle's  "Mankind";  you  "refuse  to 
be  served. "  You  only  consent  to  be  enraged. 

I  bear  you  no  ill  will,  shall  watch  your  career  in  letters 
with  friendly  solicitude  —  have,  in  fact,  just  sent  to  the 
*  *  *  a  most  appreciative  paragraph  about  your  book, 
which  may  or  may  not  commend  itself  to  the  editor;  most 
of  what  I  write  does  not.  I  hope  to  do  a  little,  now  and  then, 
to  further  your  success  in  letters.  I  wish  you  were  different 
(and  that  is  the  harshest  criticism  that  I  ever  uttered  of 
you  except  to  yourself)  and  wish  it  for  your  sake  more  than 
for  mine.  I  am  older  than  you  and  probably  more  "ac 
quainted  with  grief"  —  the  grief  of  disappointment  and 
disillusion.  If  in  the  future  you  are  convinced  that  you  have 
become  different,  and  I  am  still  living,  my  welcoming  hand 
awaits  you.  And  when  I  forgive  I  forgive  all  over,  even  the 
new  offence. 


204         %*fo  Letters  of  Ambrose  Bierce 

Miller  undoubtedly  is  sincere  in  his  praise  of  you,  for  with 
all  his  faults  and  follies  he  is  always  generous  and  usually 
over  generous  to  other  poets.  There's  nothing  little  and 
mean  in  him.  Sing  ho  for  Joaquin! 

s«*  s«*  &+ 

If  I  "made  you  famous"  please  remember  that  you  were 
guilty  of  contributory  negligence  by  meriting  the  fame. 
"Eternal  vigilance"  is  the  price  of  its  permanence.  Don't 
loaf  on  your  job.  ^^^ 

I  have  told  her  of  a  certain  "enchanted  forest"  hereabout 
to  which  I  feel  myself  sometimes  strongly  drawn  as  a  fitting 
place  to  lay  down  "my  weary  body  and  my  head."  (Per 
haps  you  remember  your  Swinburne: 

"Ah  yet,  would  God  this  flesh  of  mine  might  be 
Where  air  might  wash  and  long  leaves  cover  me! 
Ah  yet,  would  God  that  roots  and  stems  were  bred 
Out  of  my  weary  body  and  my  head.") 

The  element  of  enchantment  in  that  forest  is  supplied  by 
my  wandering  and  dreaming  in  it  forty-one  years  ago  when 
I  was  a-soldiering  and  there  were  new  things  under  a  new 
sun.  It  is  miles  away,  but  from  a  near-by  summit  I  can 
overlook  the  entire  region  —  ridge  beyond  ridge,  parted  by 
purple  valleys  full  of  sleep.  Unlike  me,  it  has  not  visibly 
altered  in  all  these  years,  except  that  I  miss,  here  and  there, 
a  thin  blue  ghost  of  smoke  from  an  enemy's  camp.  Can  you 
guess  my  feelings  when  I  view  this  Dream-land  —  my 
Realm  of  Adventure,  inhabited  by  memories  that  beckon 
me  from  every  valley?  I  shall  go;  I  shall  retrace  my  old 
routes  and  lines  of  march;  stand  in  my  old  camps;  inspect 
my  battlefields  to  see  that  all  is  right  and  undisturbed.  I 
shall  go  to  the  Enchanted  Forest. 


PRINTED   BY 
JOHN  HENRY  NASH  AT   SAN  FRANCISCO 

IN   DECEMBER  MDCCCCXXII 
THE  EDITION  CONSISTS  OF  FOUR  HUNDRED 

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FOUR  HUNDRED  ARE  NUMBERED 

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14  DAY  USE 

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